


This Just Sort Of Happened

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Different Victor than you know, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Going backwards feels like standing still, Horribleness, I promise it will get better...in like, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, I'm a Bastard, M/M, Paaaiiiiiiiiiinnnn, Suicide Attempt, Time Travel, Unintended time travel, When I say eventual I mean it, eventual john/sherlock, fifteen chapters, not for a long time., what is WRONG with me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of the wedding Sherlock goes home depressed. He decides he needs something to take the edge off. Things get weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spirit In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



He took off his tie and sat on the edge of his bed. They were having a baby. This was the end of Sherlock and John. This was the end of the detective and his blogger. Sure, John would come by on occasion. Perhaps he'd even go with him on a case or two, but Sherlock knew it would never be enough for him. Having John in small doses over the last few weeks was bad enough. It was hell living without him, especially since he'd figured everything out when he was away. He knew now that he...that he...don't think it. 

The way he felt about John, the way he'd never understood, was killing him. He'd just take a small hit to let his mind wander. It wouldn't hurt him and no one would know. If he just took a taste he wouldn't get addicted again. He could keep it under control this time. He could do this. 

He walked into the kitchen and pried a board loose from the wall. There, in a crevasse smaller than a whiskey bottle, the other thing calling to him, was what he needed. He pulled out the small metal box and ran his fingers along the edges. He closed his eyes as he opened in and took a deep breath. Control. When he opened them again he saw what he knew would be there, two vials and several syringes and a length of rubber cord. The syringes were the disposable kind that had removable needles. He'd acquired a whole pack from an old 'friend' who had extra. He picked a draw needle and sat down. 

It was less than he usually took. A lot less. And what he usually took wasn't that much anyway. It had been, what, five years since he last gave in? 'Sobriety is a journey, not a destination.' He'd just take a short detour. 

He drew up the small amount and tied the rubber tubbing around his arm. He felt weak as he squeezed his hand and looked for a vein. There, just there, and oh! Yes. There. He depressed the plunger and was on his way. 

He was able to think of the day without it hurting. There had been a great deal of pain. No one would blame him. No one would care. 

Major Sholto. That was a surprise. John hadn't said one word about him previously, yet he wanted him there on the important day. And the way the man looked at John, the way John looked back...obvious. They'd been more than just lovers, and that was what hurt. Not that John had sex with a man, but the fact that he had LOVED a man. He had loved Major Sholto, and he didn't love Sherlock. 

So there it was, clear as day. It wasn't that John didn't like men, it was that John didn't like Sherlock. It wasn't that John was repulsed by the male form, it was that John was repulsed by him. He ran through a list of all the things John had said that should have told him. 

We're not a couple.  
I'm not involved.  
We need to be more careful.  
I am not gay.  
There are limits.  
I'm not asking you out.  
People will talk. 

He knew what John meant, now more than ever. He could hear John saying it. 

I don't love him.  
I don't love him.  
I don't love you.  
I don't love him.  
I don't love you.  
I don't love you.  
I don't want anyone to think I love you. 

And that was worse, wasn't it. Bad enough that he didn't love Sherlock, but he was offended when people assumed he did. He was offended when Sherlock assumed he was interested. 

That first night at Angelo's when he told Sherlock the first time that he wasn't hitting on him it was so casual. Between them, at that point, it was a flimsy cover. He didn't even try to sound like he meant it. He was intrigued until Sherlock said he was married to his work. 

Then they got to know each other and the proclamations got rougher around the edges. He wasn't trying to ignore his own embarrassment, he was telling people they were wrong. He would look at them like they were crazy. The look would say 'How could I possibly be with Sherlock? Haven't you met him?'. 

Sherlock never let on that it hurt when he didn't just ignore the questions and assumptions. He'd thought the fact that he refused to correct them was enough to speak his feelings. He never once denied it, and that was the only actual control he had over the situation. 

He had found it strange that John said he wasn't gay, as opposed to 'I'm straight.', but he guessed that was because he WASN'T straight. He was bisexual, and knew that people wouldn't dig deeper if he said he wasn't gay. He knew that people would assume he meant that he was straight, and then he wouldn't have to answer questions, and wouldn't have to lie. 

That was his John, well, John. Always looking for a way to be in control. Always keeping himself hidden. He was good at that. He'd often play things down, telling you some other fact before you asked a question. Slight of hand. A magic trick. He rarely complained about the things that were really bothering him, instead telling you what he wanted you to hear. 

'My bloody leg!' He'd say instead of 'I don't like being left behind'. 

'I had a row with a chip and pin machine' instead of 'I need money'. 

'I'm not gay' instead of 'I don't like Sherlock'. 

He was quite the master of skating the issue. Sherlock had known that about him all along. That's what made John Watson unpredictable. Not that he'd lie, but that he'd tell you facts you didn't need. 

That's what kept him alone. The women he dated never got close because there was always something off about John. He held his truth too close to his chest. 'What is he hiding?', they would think. 

That's why Mary was perfect for him. She had secrets as well. Secrets she'd never tell. Those are the only ones who don't demand transparency, the ones who don't want the light of truth pointed in their direction. 

He didn't tell John about Mary having secrets. John knew. John had always known. He was pleased as punch to have someone to lie to that was lying back. Someone who would eat his lie and never mention it. He wanted to look closer into what she was lying about at first, but then she'd changed his mind. She helped him get John back, and that was enough. Had to be. He couldn't lose him again. 

So here he was, laying on his back on the kitchen floor, sweating in his best tux, which he'd worn to his best friends wedding, and wanting to die. He eyed the vial in the box carefully. John had Mary now, and a baby. He wouldn't need Sherlock, not really. 

He drew the full amount into the syringe and squeezed his hand again. He wasn't leaving John behind because John wasn't here anymore. He was doing him a favor. It would kill him every day to see Sherlock like this. Sherlock would never be able to keep his addiction under control. He would be a burden. 

He hit the vein on the second try, haematoma starting on the other arm, and pushed slowly until the chamber was empty. He felt warm. He'd just close his eyes for a second. Just a second. 

\-----

He still felt warm, but now there was something else. A sound. Maybe it was a hallucination. He wondered how long until he died. When it would go black. The sound was still there. It was getting louder. Louder still. 

"When I die and they lay me to rest,  
Gonna go to the place that's the best,  
When I lay me down to die,  
Goin' up to the spirit in the-

When I die and they lay me to rest,  
Gonna go to the place that's the best,  
When I lay me down to die,  
Goin' up to the spirit in the-

When I die and they lay me to rest,  
Gonna go to the place that's the best,  
When I lay me down to die,  
Goin' up to the spirit in the-"

He reached out blindly for his mobile and pressed the button. The music stopped. Wait...his mobile was by the bed. He opened his eyes to find that he wasn't on the floor in the kitchen, but was instead in his own bed. He was wearing his pajama bottoms and the shirt he had on the day before. Where had the tux gone? Was he really that far out of it that he dressed himself and cleaned up without knowing it? 

The mobile started to ring again and he picked it up angrily, just noticing that he must have slept through the night because the sun was coming up. 

"What is it?" He asked gruffly. 

"Did you get the tux taken in or not? I told you to do it last week but you didn't say you did. I can't have anything going wrong today." John said anxiously. 

"What are you talking about? John, are you drunk?" Sherlock asked. 

"I had a whiskey. Two fingers worth. I'm not drunk."

"Then why are you asking about the tux?"

"Because it's my bloody wedding day and everything has to be perfect. Fuck! I'm freaking out! I freaking the fuck out! Can I come by the flat?"

Sherlock, who was still completely confused, said the only thing he knew to be true. "You can always come by the flat." 

John sighed on the other side of the line and if Sherlock knew him, which he did, scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Thanks Sherlock. I'll be over soon." 

The line clicked off and he sat listening to the dial tone for a while before shaking his head and getting out of bed. He must be hallucinating. John had called him yesterday morning about the tux. He was worried about the wedding. He'd come over yesterday morning to talk. 

Sherlock walked to the loo and looked at himself in the mirror. He'd had hallucinations before, but they were always muddled in his mind. They were always kind of blurred together. This one was crystal clear. He wondered how time was passing in real life as he got into the shower. Maybe he could hallucinate a whole day while three seconds passed. Maybe it was like a dream. 

He pinched himself, because he'd heard someone say something about that a long time ago, and instantly regretted it. It hurt. A lot. He let the hot water soothe it and decided that if he was going to hallucinate this day he would do what he wanted. 

\-----

Sherlock was doing three experiments at once on the kitchen table when John walked in a short time later. The goggles had pulled up the hair on the right side of his head and his face was serious. John laughed at the sight and Sherlock looked up. 

"What would happen if you didn't get married?" He asked. "Would time continue on like this, or would we have broken the loop?" 

"What are you going on about? Of course I'm getting married. Just because I have cold feet doesn't mean I'm going to renege on a promise. Do you want tea?" John asked. 

Sherlock hummed and John went to fill the kettle. 

When the tea was made they sat in their respective seats and Sherlock stared closely at John, watching his reactions for a crack in the illusion. John sighed and set his tea down. 

"Is this about the wedding? I told you, nothing will change. We can still hang out and I'll go on a few cases with you. It'll be fine." John said softly. "We'll be fine." 

"What about when the baby comes?" Sherlock asked. 

"What baby? Sherlock, you've got to settle down. You're getting worked up over nothing."

Sherlock set his tea down and crossed his arms. 

\-----

He tried to derail this John multiple times during the day, but he was steadfast as ever. By the time they were at the wedding Sherlock was itching for another hit. 'Too bad', he thought, 'Can't get high in a dream.' 

Mary, who'd been talking for what felt like hours, said something nonsensical as he walked away from her. He strode right over to Major Sholto and sat down next to him. 

"Were you his first?" He asked, not sure what kind of answer he'd get out of a figment of his own imagination, but bored. Bored. 

"Pardon me, what?" The Major asked in a hushed tone. 

"Sexual partner. Were you John's first male sexual partner?"

The man stared at him like a dying guppy, mouth opening and closing without making a sound. 

"He told me he wasn't gay, but that's not the whole truth, is it? Was he forceful? Did he proposition you, or did he just push you up against a wall? I bet-" Sherlock began. 

The Major hit him in the cheek and he flew out of his chair. Well, that was exciting. Maybe a few more skirmishes and he'd be high enough. He rubbed his face as John came over and hissed at him. He was assuming Sherlock was to blame, and while that was true, it also hurt. He was the obvious fuck up. He stood up and brushed off his sleeves. 

"I was a bit insensitive about the Major's injuries. I apologise." Sherlock said, walking away. 

He went back to where Mary was standing and took the place by her side. 

"And what the hell was that about?" She asked. 

"I asked if John initiated their sexual relationship." Sherlock said, taking the napkin-wrapped ice she passed him and holding it to his face. 

"I gathered it was mutual." She said. "What did John tell you?" 

Sherlock sneered at her and walked away. 

\-----

He got through his speech quite well, and surprised himself by forgetting about the danger the Major was in until almost the exact time he'd mentioned it in real life. So, once again, they played murder. 

Sholto was taken away and things went as planned and he played the song and did the speech and John looked at him astounded when he said Mary was pregnant and asked how long he'd known. He didn't answer, instead, nodding and leaving the party altogether. 

Once he was outside he realised he didn't know what to do next. In real life he'd gone home and shot up. He could do so in the dream/hallucination he was in, but that seemed tedious. No, why not try someone new when he could do anything without consequences? 

He hailed a cab and tossed his tie in the street as they took off. 

\-----

The club was packed, and exactly how he remembered it. The lights were low and the music was loud as he made his way to the bar. Usually it took a few cocktails for him to get a buzz, so he downed a couple shots and waited to see. As he was waiting a thin young man walked up to him and sat in his lap. 

"Come here often?" The man, no, boy, nineteen at most, asked. 

"Don't give me cliché one liners. I'd do better than that." Sherlock replied, surprisingly feeling a bit dizzy as he drank down the third and fourth shot. 

"Alright, don't want to play games? I want to suck you. How's that?" The boy said. 

"Fine." Sherlock huffed. 

The boy pulled him from the seat as he paid the barkeep, and dragged him towards the loo. There were people everywhere and Sherlock was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic. Luckily, the boy brought him out the back and pushed him up against the wall. The cool air felt good on his face and he forgot for a moment that none of this was real. 

"Why are you all dressed up?" The boy asked as he pressed sloppy kisses to Sherlock's neck. 

"Don't talk." Sherlock replied, pushing on his shoulders until he knelt in front of him. 

"Bossy type? Okay. Okay." The boy remarked. 

Sherlock was going to tell him off, but the boy had his trousers undone and his cock in his mouth so fast his breath was gone. The boy sucked a little to rough, but found a rhythm that made lights shoot behind his eyelids. 

He let his head rest against the wall as the boy continued to pull on him with those sweet lips and soon he was shooting come down his throat and panting. It had been so long since he'd been touched that it took a minute to come back to reality. Well, pseudo- reality. When he did the boy had him tucked away and was undoing his belt. 

"I'd rather not." Sherlock said, already stumbling towards the street. 

The boy cursed at him, as he was getting into a cab and giving the driver a large note to take him home quickly. He got there and made it up the steps and to his room without throwing up. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes, air whooshing in his ears. This fucking dream. This fucking dream. 

\----

When he opened them he was sitting in front of a battalion of folded napkins. He heard a noise and looked up to find John eyeballing him suspiciously. He looked at the napkins and then back at John. 

"This just sort of happened." He said finally. 

John smiled.


	2. Dante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues his travel. This one hurts.

"Sherlock, mate." John said, and even he seemed to notice what an awkward statement that was. 

Sherlock knew what was coming next and beat him to the punch. "The army death." 

John smiled and nodded. "Have to go, case on." He shouted to Mary. 

They left the flat and went on their way. 

\-----

"Let me examine the body!" John shouted. 

Sherlock wondered how much would go the same. He wondered what he'd have to do to change it. He wondered if he would be here long enough to see the change. He couldn't tell Major Sholto any sooner, because if he was right, and he always, okay, often was, he would be going backwards in time and not forwards. 

He decided he might as well get the case over with so he could spend some time with this John. He wanted to see how he would react if Sherlock told him what was going on. 

He explained what had happened to a din of 'brilliant's and 'amazing's. John followed him out with a huge grin on his face. 

"You're bloody brilliant." He said. 

"Yes, you've already said that." Sherlock noted. "I need to talk to you. Tea?" 

John nodded at the behavior, not thinking it any more strange than normal, and they made their way to a small café. Sherlock got them both tea and secured them a small table where they could be alone. John fidgeted with his cup and looked up at Sherlock expectantly. 

Sherlock had a moment to wonder what John thought he was going to say before John spoke.

"I know." He said. 

Sherlock's heart almost leapt from his chest at the thought. How could John know? Was this because John was a figment of his imagination? Did John innately know everything that Sherlock knew? 

"We don't have a friend named Beth. It's code. I know you know, so you don't have to pretend." He said, looking back at the table. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat back. Of course. Of course his mind wouldn't let him off that easily. 

"I'm either travelling through time or hallucinating this whole thing. I don't know. Maybe I'm dead. I should be dead from all the heroin I pumped through my veins. Perhaps this is hell. Maybe purgatory. That seems more likely. Dante said-" Sherlock began. 

John was suddenly standing, having knocked his own chair over with the force, and screaming at Sherlock in a hushed voice. Yes, screaming in a hushed voice, how very military. 

"When? When did you shoot up?"

"About a month from now." Sherlock said honestly. 

"A month from now? What the hell are you...are you high right now?" John demanded. 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "I told you I'm going back in time. It started after your wedding." 

John walked towards him and looked closely at his eyes. He pulled his hand up and undid the button at his wrist. Sherlock sighed as John pushed up one and then the other sleeve to find no new track marks. 

"Where are you shooting up now? Hmm?" John asked, looking closely between Sherlock's fingers. 

"I told you! I haven't shot up yet. It won't be for another month!" Sherlock hissed, pulling his hand away. "I had hoped you would keep up. I'M TRAVELING THROUGH TIME!" 

John pulled out his mobile and started punching in numbers. Sherlock's stomach flipped nervously and he stood up and started walking away quickly. 

"Stop! Sherlock, stop!" John called after him. 

"You're phoning my brother. I'm not sticking around so you can admit me to a psych ward!" Sherlock hollered back. 

John stomped and put his mobile back in his pocket. He jogged after Sherlock. When he caught up to him he stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. 

"I won't call anyone, yeah? We'll work this out together."

Sherlock turned and surprised John with the fact that he had tears in his eyes. 

"You don't understand! If this keeps up I'll have to go back! I'll have to go back and they'll...they'll beat me again, and I don't know if I can make it through without the thought that you'll be at home waiting for me! I thought if I came back I could have a chance! A chance to tell you!" Sherlock babbled. 

John realised he had seen this before. He'd had friends in the army that lost their minds. He looked on in horror. 

"Sherlock." He asked quietly, rubbing Sherlock's bicep. "Sherlock, what happened when you were gone? Who beat you?"

"What do you care?" Sherlock hissed. "As far as you're concerned, it was a bloody holiday." 

John looked at his feet and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Jesus. Jesus. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I had no idea. No one told me. Jesus." 

Sherlock pulled away and started walking down the street at a clipped pace. 

"Let's go back to the flat." John hollered after him. "Please Sherlock, let's go home." 

John didn't notice his little slip, but Sherlock did. Home. He stopped walking and let John catch up with him. 

"You won't call my brother?" He asked, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.  
"Christ. No, okay? Let me take you back."

Sherlock nodded and they hailed a cab. 

The ride was silent but pained. The tension in the cab was palpable. When they made it to Baker Street twenty minutes later it wasn't fast enough. Sherlock got from the cab and left John to pay, walking into the building and up the stairs. 

When John got to the flat he found Sherlock laying on the couch hugging his knees. Feotal position. Christ. John sat on the floor next to him and ran his hand over Sherlock's thigh. 

"I want this to stop!" Sherlock yelled. "This isn't fun anymore! It was never fun! I want off this bloody ride! Haven't I suffered enough?" 

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tried to soothe him. 

"You shouldn't have suffered. I'm sorry for how I acted. I'm sorry I didn't try to understand." John whispered. 

"How could you? I'm a machine, remember?" Sherlock hissed, his words biting but true. 

"Fuck." John's head fell, remembering those words leave his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just didn't understand." 

"You don't have to be sorry. You're not alone! You have Mary now! I'm sure she'd never hurt you like I did! She's lying to you, John! I don't know what about, but she's lying!"

And Sherlock was shaking and tears were rolling down his face and staining the couch. John wrapped his arms awkwardly around him and pulled him close. 

"It's okay. I'm not leaving you. There's enough of me to go around, yeah? We'll still be friends. You're my best friend." John whispered. 

Sherlock tore himself away and got up. 

"I don't want to be your friend!" He hissed, saliva spraying from his mouth. "I don't want your friendship, John! Can't you see that? Haven't I done enough to show you? I know how you feel, you've said it enough!" And now he was pacing. 

John stood and instinctively positioned himself in front of the door. 

"I'm not gay." Sherlock said in a mocking voice. "We're not a couple! Well were bloody were! I don't care if we weren't fucking! You were mine and mine alone! And I don't care! I don't care! I don't care that you were too stupid to notice!" 

John was looking like he might be sick. Sherlock found himself hyperventilating. 

"Sherlock. I..." John began, trailing off and the end and looking at his feet. 

Sherlock's breaths came in painful puffs and he felt his skin prickling and things were getting dark. He had the peace of mind to curse before he fell. 

"Bloody hell." And he hit the floor. 

\-----

"Of course you're my best friend." John said with a smile. 

Sherlock blinked his eyes and dropped the cup in his hand. John shot up with a panicked look and helped Sherlock into a chair. 

"Are you alright?" He asked, concern coloring his words. 

'Yeah. Just in hell.' Sherlock thought.


	3. Safe Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's his best friend. Again. Wonderful.

He took a sip of tea, scowling at the bobbing eyeball, and rested his head on the table. Third incarnation in as many times unconscious. He felt no lasting ill effects from the apparent panic attack. His body felt rather rejuvenated, actually. Maybe this time, now that he saw how things were going, he could keep himself right. John. John was rubbing his shoulder. John; you keep me right. 

"There's something about Mary that I need you to know." Sherlock said, lifting his head and staring at the floating eyeball. 

John sat back in his seat with a fond smile. He looked relieved. He looked more relaxed than he had in a long time. Their eyes locked and Sherlock had a flash of heat, wondering how his mouth might taste and what his tongue would feel like running against his skin. Bad. Wrong. No.  
"I have to do some...things." Sherlock said, standing and walking John out of the kitchen. "Start on the speech thing. And...I'll phone you later." 

John chuckled and walked out the front door. His body tensed and he bit his lip as he listened to John walking down the stairs. The second the front door closed he was off like a light, running to his bedroom and looking out the window. He saw John walking down the street and cursed. 

Wrong! He was doing this wrong! He had to stop thinking of this as a curse and start looking at it as opportunity. He needed to study his condition scientifically. What would others do with a chance like this? Certainly not squander it away lamenting over lost loves and never had's!  
He was given a chance that no others had ever spoken of. A chance that no one but science fiction writers dreamed of. He had a singularly new experience. And he needed a wank. Fuck. 

He pulled his trousers off and flopped back on the bed with his eyes clenched closed. Singularly new! Knowledge that had yet to be acquired by anyone, laymen or not! What had Carl Sagan said about knowledge? "Understanding is a kind of ecstasy!" The man was right. 

He gripped his cock, which he wouldn't admit was hard because John had been massaging his shoulder, and drew a drop of precome from the head with a long slow pull. He rubbed it in slow circles around the ruddy head and gave himself another stroke. 

If he could get this out of the way he could work with a clear mind. This was why he'd avoided relationships, why he'd avoided long term intimacy. Every time that thing between his legs got interested he had no chance at in depth thinking until it was taken care of. 

He pumped his wrist and his length got impossibly harder in his hand. He closed his eyes and let himself go. He thought of the boy from the night before...ahead, that had sucked him in an alley. He thought of tights lips and short blond hair, and dark blue eyes and that smile before he told Sherlock he was brilliant and-no! Can't get muddled. 

He stuck two fingers into his mouth and sucked, working at the head of his prick and trying desperately to get off. The front door opened and he stopped with a grunt, rolling over and breathing roughly into the sheets. 

"Yoohoo! Thought I'd bring you boys some muffins. Sherlock? John?" Mrs H chirped. 

"John's gone home!" Sherlock yelled. "Leave them in the kitchen." 

Mrs Hudson hummed and he heard her footsteps outside his bedroom door. "Are you alright dear? It's just that I know what it's like to lose someone to another lover. When I was-" 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson. That will be all." Sherlock said, slamming his head repeatedly against the bed, wishing it were concrete, and feeling his trapped cock soften. 

When he heard the front door close again he sighed and rolled over, looking at his crotch and frowning. "Perhaps another time, old friend." 

He pulled his trousers back on and went to the loo. He washed his hands and ran a hand through his dark curls. He had to get to work. 

\-----

An hour later, after going through different sites with information on the Philadelphia experiment (useless), the Mouberly-Jourdain (unfounded), the Mountauk project (interesting), the Fetz legend (flimsy) and the frustratingly obvious hoax that was the story of H. Nordkvist, Sherlock was exhausted. All of the research he'd done had convinced him of one thing; to go back in time, you have to be a rich military run operation. He wasn't that, but his brother...no. 

The limited information he found put time travellers in the same bucket with near death experiencers and people who talk to the dead. Interesting for children and idiots, but nothing more. You could chew on these ideas for a long time, but get nothing from them. 

He rested his hands behind his head and sighed deeply. Somehow being the only one, having the exclusive, as it were, was turning out to be less exciting than he'd first expected. 

Suddenly the front door opened and a damp (early evening rain) and miserable looking John Watson stepped through the frame. He toed off his muddy shoes and then pulled off his socks. They were soaking. He'd been standing in the rain long enough for the bottoms of his pant legs to wick the moisture. Sherlock's mouth fell open when John removed his trousers and went to lay them over the radiator. 

"John?" Sherlock asked, watching as the ashen man walked to the kitchen and pulled out the box of tea. 

John held the box in his hands and looked at it as if it might have the answer. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, water still dripping down the sleeves of his shooting jacket. He looked broken. Lost. He didn't look like John at all, standing there in his jacket and pants. So much so that Sherlock rose from his seat and padded in to the kitchen as well. 

"She's, um, she was..." John began. 

And with that Sherlock saw it; John standing on the front stoop as he saw someone through the window. He moved to the window and crushed several flowers beneath his shoes, his sensible brown leather shoes, while he watched someone not himself standing with his soon to be wife. He stood there while the drizzle turned more insistent and the embrace between Mary and this man did as well. 

John wasn't a man to stand around whilst others wronged him, but he stood there. If he'd blamed the man he would have stormed in and knocked him about the head. He didn't, which meant he knew the threat was Mary, not her lover. Mary was the one who initiated. Mary. 

Sherlock walked forward and helped John from his jacket. He sat him at the table and brought him a blanket. After setting some water to boil he grabbed a towel and gently removed most of the water from John's hair, trying to keep the picture of him standing outside in the rain from his mind. He slipped John's mobile from the counter and put it on silent, then got his own and get ahold of his homeless network. 

The kettle went off and he poured them both a cuppa and sat next to John, not wanting to make John uncomfortable with the prospect of looking him in the eye. 

"I think I'm cursed." John said quietly after a few minutes. 

"Then we make a great pair." Sherlock replied flatly. 

"That's one thing I like about you, Sherlock, never have to tell you a thing. Was it the mud on my shoes that gave it away?" John said weakly, taking a sip of the tea and playing with the cup. 

"There were several factors. John. I'm sorry."

"You've noting to be sorry for. I'm the idiot that was going to marry her." John hissed, his anger wet and raw, but directed elsewhere. 

"I should have figured it out. I should have looked closer." Sherlock said calmly. 

"Then why didn't you?" John said, becoming a bit more agitated. "Why didn't the great Sherlock Holmes see this coming? What's the matter with you?" 

John stood and stepped away from the table, breathing roughly and gritting his teeth. Sherlock stood as well and moved from foot to foot. He didn't know what to say. Was this really his fault? Should he have looked closer from the beginning? Why had he failed the one person he was supposed to protect? 

"Why do I surround myself with people that hurt me? Why?" John shouted. 

Sherlock took a step back and their eyes locked. 

"Jesus! I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm not angry at you." John whispered as his body went limp against the wall. 

Sherlock took a step forward, testing the waters, and then another. He placed his hands on John's shoulders and John breathed a great heaving sigh. 

"And here you are. Here for me when she isn't. How the tables have turned, yeah? I missed you, you know?" John said, tears brimming as his hands shook. "I missed you a great bloody deal."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and John buried his face in Sherlock's chest as he began to sob. 

"I missed you too, John."  He whispered. 

A knock came to the door and John pulled away quickly. The loss of John against his skin made Sherlock frown. He went to the door to find one of his people standing with three paper bags full of things. He passed a note to them and brought the bags inside. 

John was standing in the kitchen, arms wrapped around himself, and looking nervous. He recognised one of his jumpers right away and smiled sadly. Sherlock pulled out a pair of clean trousers and handed them over. John pulled them on and cleared his throat. 

"I suppose they didn't ask." He said, doing up the button. 

"No, I told them to go in the back. She might not even notice. If you want I can text her for you, say I needed you for a case." Sherlock offered, for even though this reality might not be real for him, it was obviously real for John. 

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good. Just need to..." John said, spacing out a bit. 

Sherlock took a step closer and put a steadying hand on his arm. 

"We've already hired a lot of people for this. I'll be on the phone for weeks. What will I tell my mum?" He asked weakly. "She wanted a grandkid so badly. I've really fucked this up, haven't I?" 

Sherlock gripped his bicep tighter and shook his head. "It's not your fault." 

John bit his lip and looked at his feet. 

"That thing. That thing we just did, with the hugging. Do you think we could do that again?" He asked nervously. "I mean, I know you don't really like people touching you, but-" 

Sherlock drew him once again up to his chest and held him close as John melted into him. The hot breath coming from John in little puffs made his heart sing. He thought he might just die in this moment. 

\-----

An hour later, after texting Mary and ordering in, John cleared their plates and joined Sherlock on the couch. He turned on some Bond film and sipped at his whiskey. Sherlock watched him, the aching to be close to John finally abating somewhat now that he was. 

"Would it be too much trouble?" John asked. 

"We'll move you back in right away." Sherlock replied. 

John sighed and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock took a few moments to enjoy this new development before remembering that he wouldn't be around long enough to see John settle in. He'd have to sleep sometime. He could go a few days, but when it was over he'd have to go back. Back in time. Back to John and Mary. Back to being alone in a flat too large for just him. 

"Are you alright?" John asked a while later when he got up for another drink. 

"Mmm." Sherlock agreed. 

John gave himself a few more fingers of the amber liquid and sat back on the couch with his hand on Sherlock's knee. 

"Thank you for not asking questions." He said. 

When he squeezed Sherlock's knee and retracted his hand Sherlock wrapped his arm around his back. 

"You're safe here, John." He said, trying to sound confident as his stomach bucked and churned. 

John leaned against him and took a sip of his drink and Sherlock could hardly believe what he was getting away with. This closeness, this proximity. It was palpable and thick and sticky sweet and he only wanted more. He didn't move, though, because right then they were slotted against each other on the couch so perfectly he never wanted to leave.


	4. Bang Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's segment of 'Why Writers Should Be Drowned' is brought to you by the radiant Nancy Sinatra, and her equally radiant song, Bang Bang.

Twenty minutes later, just after Bond had killed his seventeenth poorly prepared adversary, John held up his once again empty glass and shook it in Sherlock's direction. 

"Are you sure you should have another?" Sherlock asked as he hesitantly took the glass. 

"No. But you'll get me one, and then another, because my heart is bleeding out on the floor and you're a good man." John said, slurring at most one fifth of his words. 

Sherlock breathed deeply and silently agreed that in this state he would do anything for John. In truth, he'd always do anything for John. That's what got him into this mess in the first place. He stood, suddenly missing the extra body heat, and took down the bottle from the cupboard. He poured three fingers and put it back where it had been, wanting and not wanting to have to retrieve it soon. He knew he shouldn't enjoy having John drunk, as the reasons for his drunkard state were emotionally compromising for both men, but knowing and feeling were often dissimilar. 

He walked back and sat down again, passing the drink over and holding his breath as John nestled against his side and nudged his shoulder. He acquiesced and wrapped an arm around John, resting is hand in the most heterosexual way he could upon his friends shoulder. 'Don't grope.' He thought. 'Mustn't scare him away.'

John took a long sip and coughed a bit before resting his head on Sherlock's chest and watching the movie. Sherlock wanted to run his hands through the short cropped hair. He wanted to press his lips to John's temple and promise he'd never leave again. He resisted commendably and John laughed at a bit where someone with an overly sexualized name did something with a gun. 

Sherlock couldn't keep up with the movie, his mind already split in two as it was. Half thinking about how John smelled up close, wondering what he'd smell like even closer, and the other half determining exactly how long he could remain awake without illegal chemical stimulants. He'd once stayed up for three days straight on a case, but that wouldn't be enough. He needed longer with this John. Needed more time to categorize the shift in natural physical proximity. 

John shook the glass again, what had to be, a great while later and Sherlock got up to fill it once more. The dark liquid made its way into the glass while the credits ran in the background and another movie Sherlock didn't recognise started up. Nancy Sinatra sang. 

"I was five and he was six  
We rode on horses made of sticks  
He wore black and I wore white  
He would always win the fight

Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down.

Seasons came and changed the time  
When I grew up, I called him mine  
He would always laugh and say  
Remember when we used to play?

Bang bang, I shot you down  
Bang bang, you hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down.

Music played, and people sang  
Just for me, the church bells rang.

Now he's gone, I don't know why  
And 'til this day, sometimes I cry  
He didn't even say goodbye  
He didn't take the time to lie.

Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down..."

 

Sherlock turned to find 'Kill Bill' written in large letters on the screen. He flicked the button to turn off the telly with a frown. When he returned to the couch he found John almost asleep. He set down the glass and tried to help the doctor stand. He was almost impossible to move. 

"John. We've got to get you to bed." He said in what he hoped was a suitably soothing tone. 

"Sssherlock? Where am I?" John asked as his eyelids raised slowly. 

"You're at Baker Street. We need to get you upstairs to bed."

"Hmm. Alright." 

Sherlock was able then to direct John to the stairs and help him take them one at a time until they got to the top. He opened the door and had John lean against the wall as he made the bed with fresh linens. It only took a few tries to figure it out. 

John lay down and Sherlock helped him remove his button up shirt and trousers. He folded them and took a second, a second he hoped John wouldn't remember, to run his hand down John's chest. John hummed as he pulled the duvet up and gripped Sherlock's wrist as he turned to leave. 

"Only, Sherlock? Could you stay tonight?" John asked, eyes closed and mouth left hanging a bit open.

Sherlock stood stiff in amazement for so long that John fell asleep. He was startled from his light snoring as Sherlock tried once again to pull away. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows even as his eyes stayed closed. 

"Only. Only, Sherlock? Could you stay?" He asked. 

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and removed John's hand from his wrist. 

"Alright, John. I'll stay." He whispered. 

He walked slowly to the other side of the queen sized bed and slipped under the covers with all of his clothes still on. He lay still with his arms at his side and tried not to make a sound as John repositioned himself so his arm was draped across Sherlock's stomach. 

"Thanks, Sherlock. Y'know you're my best friend." John said, sleepily nuzzling into Sherlock's chest. 

"Yes, John. I know." Sherlock replied weakly.


	5. Just Comfort, Yeah?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go fairly predictably after John falls asleep resting his face on Sherlock's chest.

After a half hour Sherlock decided John was asleep enough to risk it. He slowly ran his fingers through John's hair. The older man continued to snore softly as he did it again. He'd expected John's hair to be a little rough, weathered by the Afghan sun and all. 

He knew it was a ridiculous assumption as human hair grows at a rate of fifteen centimeters per year and John's grows even a bit faster. He learned how fast it grew when John slept through his barber appointment one month and his fringe had made it down to his forehead. He wished he could stick around long enough to convince John to let it grow a bit. 

John's skin was soft as well, bottom lip even more plump in sleep as he breathed in and then out. If he pressed his lips there, just there, he might be able to kiss John in his sleep. No. No. Bad idea. More than a bit not good. Mustn't take advantage of sleeping John. 

He slowly moved John's hand from around his waist and rolled him onto his back. He had to stop a few times halfway through to keep John from waking. When he had slid his way out from the covers and made it to the door he looked back once more and noticed something. John was hard. 

Had John been hard when he went to sleep? Surely he would have noticed John's state as he was pressed up close against his side. Now, John was laying with his face turned away and his erection distorting the smooth fabric of the duvet. 

Sherlock felt the heat from earlier surge through him, felt himself filling out in his trousers as he licked his lips and watched John breathe. He unconsciously ran his palm over his cock and had to stifle a moan. Christ, that felt good. It felt better even than when he wanked while thinking of John. If he did wank, just a bit right now, would it be an invasion of privacy? 

John was asleep, so he wouldn't know of any trespasses. He wouldn't ever have to know. Even if he did find out, Sherlock would be gone soon enough, and could make himself gone even sooner if need be. And anyhow, this John probably wasn't even real. No harm, no foul. 

He let his fingers slip into the elastic waist of his trousers and pull them and his pants down to his thighs. The cool air on the slick head made him gasp slightly. He gripped himself just below the head and pulled slowly upwards. A few more drops of precome made their way out and he ran his thumb through them. 

He began stroking slowly, long pulls from the base to the tip. As his speed grew he rested against the wall and let his hips thrust forward and push his cock through the hot passage made by his fist. He was pumping quickly and breathing in short puffs when John rolled over. Seeing John's face, his small smile while he slept, pushed Sherlock over the edge. 

He came hard, pulsing and pulsing over his fist and biting down on his knuckles. John slept through the whole thing, even the moments after climax while Sherlock hastily pulled his trousers up and left the room. John slept and missed how sad Sherlock looked, how obviously sick with himself he was. That was definitely a good thing. 

\-----

At eight, Sherlock stopped looking for information online about his condition and put the kettle on. He slipped two pieces of bread in the toaster and got out the jam. When the tea was ready he made a cup just as John liked and spread the butter over the bread. 

He put it all on a tray with a few paracetamol and a glass of water and brought it up to John. He walked into the room without knocking to find John sitting up in bed and staring out the window. He looked, once again, very lost. 

"Brought you some pain pills and toast. You've got to have a raging headache by now" He said softly. 

John hummed and looked over. "Thanks, Sherlock. About last night-" 

"Don't be silly. I'm happy to help you in any way you require. You should know that by now." Sherlock interrupted, hoping ardently to cut off the whole conversation. 

John's eyebrows furrowed as he picked up his tea. "I just. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It was just comfort, yeah?" 

Sherlock swallowed hard as he felt bile rising in his throat. Just comfort. 'Except for the part where I jerked off to your sleeping form', Sherlock thought. 

"Of course John." He said instead. 

"Used to do it every once in a while in the army. Didn't have anything to do with sex. Just got lonely out there, you know?" John said with a sad, vacant smile. 

Sherlock nodded and walked from the room. He made his way quickly to the sitting room and sat down on the couch. This was going to be harder than he thought. If only John hadn't been so affectionate last night maybe he could have dealt with it. Instead, Sherlock could almost feel the phantom warmth of John's arm across his waist, his head on his shoulder. 

He didn't have long to reminisce before John came down the stairs with his cup in hand. He went to the loo and Sherlock heard him turn on the shower. Sherlock had to get out of the flat. He needed to go somewhere else and get his mind together. 

He grabbed his coat, having already showered and dressed, and left a note on the table. The stairs seemed to number more than the day before as he, truth be told, ran away from John. Because he was a coward. A bloody pervert and a coward. The cool morning air was almost enough to pull him out of the rut he was in as he walked through back alleys to get to his destination. 

He pulled his coat tighter around him and walked as quickly as possible. When he got there he snuck in the back door and walked down a dark corridor. He opened the door at the end of the hall and walked into the stark whiteness. Molly was standing over a dead body. 

"Molly." He said, voice rough. 

She jumped and spun around, ponytail whipping through the air. "Sherlock! What are you doing here so early?" 

"I need your help." He said. 

The poor woman's mouth opened and closed a few times before giving him a stern look. 

"You will not die again on my watch, Sherlock Holmes. I don't care if it's real or not." She said firmly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled up a stool, slipping on a pair of gloves and probing the underarm of the dead body. 

"It's not that. Lymph nodes are enlarged." He said. 

"Your lymph nodes?" She asked. 

"No, Molly, the dead man's, do keep up." He said dismissively. 

"How can I help you, Sherlock?" She asked, lips pursed nervously. 

"Mary has cheated on John and he's staying at Baker Street and he got drunk last night and cuddled against me while we watched some ghastly Bond movie, and then he asked if I could sleep in the bed with him and I just really need a cigarette." He said quickly. 

Molly's eyes had gone wide and pink was moving up her neck. 

"Did you kiss?" She asked. 

"No, of course not! John doesn't have those kinds of feelings for me." Sherlock spit, a bit rougher than truly necessary. 

"But you have those kinds of feelings for him. I see." She replied. 

Sherlock looked at his feet, but didn't disagree. 

"You've got to be a good friend to him. It'll be hard, I should know, but all the important things are. You never know, he may come around." She said softly. 

Sherlock sighed deeply and stood. "Do you at least have something good for me to dissect?" 

Molly smiled and walked to the large freezer, pulling out a bag of frozen toes and passing them over. "You didn't get these from me." 

Sherlock kissed the top of her head and walked away. 

"Thanks, Molly." He said as he closed the door. 

She just nodded solemnly. 

\-----

By the time. Sherlock got back John was fully awake and calling the different businesses that he'd hired for the wedding. He looked wan as he told some stranger some of the worst news he himself had received. He nodded to Sherlock's as he walked in and kept on talking. 

"No, ma'am, it didn't work out. No, I wouldn't like to talk about it. Okay. Okay. Thank you. Have a good day." He said before he rang off. "Christ! Why would I want to tell some woman I don't know why my engagement has been called off?" 

"People are idiots, John. Simple fact." 

"Wait, are those toes? On second thought, don't tell me. I don't want to know." John said, exasperatedly. 

Sherlock set them on the counter and got out his equipment. He worked in silence for the next few hours while John made the rest of his calls. He didn't ask if John had told Mary yet. He didn't have to. He knew that John hadn't in the way he kept scrolling through his contacts and then setting the mobile down. He knew because John was pacing and going to stand by the window. He knew, because he knew John. 

"Want to get takeaway?" He asked a length. 

"Yeah. I think I'll need something soon or I may pass out." John said. 

"Chinese fine?"

"Yeah, Sherlock. That'd be great."


	6. We Need To Reverse The Effects

The food came and the two men sat across from each other at the kitchen table. John picked out a few cashews and bits of bamboo shoot for Sherlock and set them on his plate. Sherlock picked at the chow mien and looked at the table. Be a good friend. Be a good friend. 

"Are you feeling alright? I mean, I'm the one that's supposed to be in a shite mood." John teased half heartedly. 

"Yes, John. I'm fine. I apologise if I haven't been the best conversationalist. I have quite a few things on my mind." Sherlock said solemnly. 

John went back to eating, taking bites of food. Sherlock did the same. Chewing and swallowing. Tasting nothing. After half his plate was empty he stood and walked to the bathroom. His knees barely hit the tile floor before he was vomiting into the toilet. John was by his side in no time. 

"Jesus. Sherlock, you've got to tell me what's wrong!" He said, rubbing Sherlock's back. 

"I really don't. Now if you would please leave me to suffer." Sherlock said bitterly. 

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked. 

"Leave me alone!" Sherlock yelled. 

John held his hands up placatingly and took a step back. Sherlock wretched again and the rest of the Chinese food was out of his stomach. John left the room and Sherlock could hear him banging around in the kitchen. 

He rested his head against the porcelain, for once not caring about the bacteria covering the surface, and breathed shallowly. He didn't really care about anything right now. He'd been doing an experiment he knew the results of. He figured it would do to test the hypothesis again. It had hit him while they were eating that his whole life was now just that. Running through the same test over and over. 

Even when he got different results things would, it seemed, be set back at the end of the time. What was the purpose? What was the meaning of his existence if all he ever did was for naught. 

Sherlock had never been an introspective person. He'd never seen the use. Another thing he never thought about was life as a whole. Now it seemed like all he could think of. 

He stood, flushed the toilet and brushed his teeth before steeling himself and walking back out to the kitchen. John was pouring a cuppa and looking worn. He glanced up and smiled sadly, then passed the cup to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and sat down. He sipped slowly while refusing to look at this John. Refusing to see him once again torn asunder by life. 

After he was done he set the cup down. A few minutes later he looked up at John in horror. His eyelids seemed heavy and he had an odd floating sensation. No. 

"John. No." He whispered. 

"It's just a sedative, Sherlock. A mild one at that. It'll help you sleep tonight." John replied. 

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Sherlock shouted, standing and turning to his room. 

John shot up after him and caught his arm. Sherlock shook him free and took two more steps and flung himself through the bedroom door. The forceful closing had everything reverberating. John stood with his mouth hanging open. 

Sherlock paced, things already getting blurry. What kind of sedative would work in fifteen minutes, and on HIM? He'd taken enough drugs in his past, including sedatives, to be fairly tolerant. What John had said about it being a mild sedative was obviously a lie. He was Sherlock's doctor. He knew him. He was knocking on the door. 

"Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm coming in." John said just before swinging the door open and walking pointedly through. "What the hell is going on? You almost passed out yesterday and you're acting reserved today. What in the bleeding hell is going on?" 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the large bed looking around the room. 

"We need to reverse the effects." He said as he felt himself growing sleepier. 

"Of the sedative? No, we don't. It's the right dose, okay? You'll get a good eight hours. It there's something that wrong with you falling asleep, then as your doctor, I should know. So what is it?" John demanded again. 

Sherlock clawed at his arms. "You wouldn't believe me." 

"Try me." John said, crossing his arms. 

"Every time I lose consciousness I move through time. I'm not done with you yet. I don't want to go back."

John's mouth slid open and he cocked his head to the right. "Sherlock." 

"Before we didn't know Mary was cheating. Now things are different. You're here with me and last night...last night you actually wanted to be with me again. It wasn't just something to pass the time, we were a unit again. I can't give that up yet, I need...I need another day."

John sat on the bed with him and gestured for him to lay down. Sherlock clenched his eyes closed and did. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close. 

"I'm sorry I made you feel like I didn't want to be around you. It was just hard for me. I'm sorry. What do you mean about before? What do you mean about moving through time?" John asked, brushing the hair away from Sherlock's brow soothingly. 

He wanted to explain it to John, but right then he couldn't seem to find the words and John's arms felt so nice. So very nice. 

\-----

"Those were your parents? I mean they're just so...ordinary." John said with a confused smile.


	7. It Nearly Killed Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some accidental honesty

Sherlock took a few steps and sat down in his chair. His head was spinning. He had days before...before. No. 

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked, more than a bit concerned. 

"Stop asking me that!" Sherlock hissed. 

"I've only asked you that once. You're starting to frighten me." John replied, kneeling at Sherlock's feet. 

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, wondering what he should do next. His decision surprised even himself. 

"It nearly killed me." He said, voice rougher than expected. 

"What nearly killed you?" John asked, clutching Sherlock's knee. 

"Leaving you. The homeless network knew because they don't matter. My brother knew because he orchestrated it. Molly knew because no one would suspect that she would be my confidant. It was you that they would watch. It was you that would point them in my direction. You were the final piece. The magic trick. I couldn't tell you because they were watching you and I would die if I lost you. Your safety in the end was more important than your happiness, and I hope one day you will understand my actions for what they were; an act of love. Because I bloody love you, and I WOULD DIE IF YOU WERE HURT BECAUSE OF ME!" Sherlock was yelling now and stood quickly, pushing John away and beginning to pace. 

John stood slack jawed, breath coming in small puffs. 

"I never thought it would affect you this much. I never thought you would be in so much pain. It never occurred to me that I mattered. I'm sorry for what happened, but I would do it again in a heartbeat because you, John Watson, are all that's ever mattered. Ever." Sherlock finished while looking at the far wall. 

"You...you love me?" John asked, voice shaking. 

Sherlock turned and looked into his eyes. "Why is that so hard to believe?" 

"Because I'm an idiot. You've said it enough times. I'm boring and predictable and as far from brilliant as you can get." John said, voice thin and wavering. 

It was Sherlock's turn to look shocked, never having thought anyone would pay attention to what he said. Never meaning to have it taken at face value. 

He strode forward and took John's face in his hands. "You aren't an idiot. You're so much more than I ever expected. You are the bravest most brilliant person I've ever met. You are everything that's lacking in me and I would never, NEVER, tire of you." 

Just as he said it the front door opened and Mary walked in. She was looking at a piece of paper in her hands, so Sherlock had time to drop his and turn away from John. 

"Hi boys, I was wondering if I could borrow John for a bit. We need to get a few things for the flat." Mary said cheerfully. 

"You can borrow him for as long as you'd like." Sherlock said, turning to stare out the window. "Just bring him back to me, will you?" 

John glanced over with what must have been shock, wondering if what Sherlock was saying now had multiple meanings. Mary clenched her jaw, unnoticed. 

"I think I can manage that." She said quickly, before pulling John by his arm. 

John walked with her to the front door but stopped once to look back. Sherlock had picked his violin up and started to play L'absente by Yann Tiersen. The meaning was lost on John, who had never heard it before and therefore didn't know the title. It was, funnily enough, not lost on Mary, who had spent three years in deep cover in Paris. 

\-----

Once they were gone Sherlock set down the violin and texted an old acquaintance he'd known at uni. The doctor arrived a few hours later, stacks of papers in his hands. Sherlock sat still as he situated himself in John's chair. 

"You don't think I'm mad?" He asked while the doctor went through the papers. 

The old man looked up with a sad smile. "Oh, Sherlock. I've always known you're mad. As for this, though it can't be explained, is something you are experiencing and therefore is real." 

"Are you attempting to analyse me, doctor Rosinsky?" Sherlock asked with a small smile. 

"You know me better than that, meshugener. We know there are many things science cannot explain. In fact, most things are still a mystery. I do have some reading for you, though. Perhaps in these pages you will find your answer." The doctor said with a smile. "Now, I must be on my way. Talk to me tomorrow if you're still here, otherwise tell me again. I would have loved to learn about this yesterday." 

Sherlock nodded and watched the man leave. After a while he picked up the first set of papers and began reading about the new findings on black holes and Einstein's theory of special relativity. 

\-----

Six hours later, as John walked back through the front door, Sherlock still didn't have a clue how what was happening could happen. He set down the papers in his hand, placing them in one of the many piles surrounding him on the floor, and shook out his hair. 

"New case?" John asked after clearing his throat. 

"Hmm? Oh, no, just trying to figure out my own reality." Sherlock said absent-mindededly. 

John laughed and brought him a bag, holding it out and then sitting next to Sherlock on the floor. Sherlock opened the bag to find left overs from a Tai place. He used a fork to spread curry on some naan and took a bite. 

"You're eating without me forcing you. Now I'm really worried." John said half-heartedly. 

"About what I said earlier. I know I stepped over certain lines. I think it's best we disregard it." Sherlock said. 

John sighed and scrubbed a palm across his face. "Sherlock. I'm not going to disregard the most honest thing you've ever said to me. I think we've both been lying to ourselves and each other for a long time-" 

And the lights cut out. Sherlock looked around and then stood to look out the window. All the lights down the street had gone out as well. Taxis stopped at the kerb and people walked outside. The city's electric systen, it seemed, had gone to sleep.


	8. This Isn't How It Was Supposed To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mary meet. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

John joined Sherlock at the window and was about to ask him something when a voice came from behind them. 

"I'd spent a great deal of work on my underground explosive plan." The man said, moving forward with a wild grin. "You won't mind if I take it a bit personally." 

"Sherlock, who is this then?" John asked, standing a bit taller. 

"So you've come to get me, is that it?" Sherlock asked the man. 

"Thought I'd just borrow you for a bit. I'd like to get inside that brain of yours." The man replied. 

John stepped between them and crossed his arms. "Who the hell are you?" 

The man smiled at John and adjusted his glasses. "Charles Augustus Magnussen." 

"Well, Charles, if you want Sherlock, you'll have to go through me." John replied with a sneer. 

"John, I don't need your assistance in this." Sherlock replied, moving to the door. "Magnussen, if you will." 

"Sherlock, no. If you're going then I'm going." John said with a stomp of his foot. 

The two men standing silently behind Magnussen shifted on their feet and Sherlock became nervous. He knew what happened when the three of them ended up together. He didn't want to risk it. 

"John. I really think you should let me go. I'll be back within the hour." Sherlock said, looking to Magnussen for agreement. 

He got a small nod and they began to walk out of the flat with John behind them. John made the mistake of reaching for his mobile and one of the thugs Magnussen had brought along shot him in the leg. It was only a tranq dart, one meant for a deer if he was right, but it still made Sherlock jump. 

He pounced on the man and knocked him to the ground. As they were falling he felt a prick on the back of his thigh. His elbow made contact with the fireplace and pain shot through him. He looked up at John, who's face had gone a bit slack, and cursed to himself before things went black. 

\-----

"Sir, can I help you?" The host asked. 

Sherlock looked up and saw the restaurant laid out in front of him. He'd run the night over a million times in his head. All the things he'd done wrong were clear to him now. The anxiety of the first night still buzzed through his veins, but now he knew that he had mattered. His death mattered. None of this was a game. 

"I believe your wife's contractions have started." He said quickly, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and slipping off his tie. 

The host turned with urgency and walked out the door. Sherlock slipped on the tie and made his way to the back of the restaurant. He found the door and quickly entered. 

"There's been a small fire. Please exit through the front." He shouted. 

Two women came out of the stalls and he let the first one pass. He closed the door and locked it, crossing his arms. 

"I know who you are." He said. 

Mary reached for the Derringer she kept on her thigh but Sherlock was quicker. He pulled it away from her leg and removed the bullets skillfully.   
"What's worse, I know what you'll do to him. How many men are you sleeping with? What's the end game, Mary? I know you don't really love him, so why marry him?" He asked, stalking forward. "Maybe you really want to settle down, but don't know how. Maybe you love the idea of loving someone like him. Someone so unlike you. Brave for the right reasons, moral compass. He's steady and dependable and good." 

Mary tore the towel rack from the wall and wielded it in front of her. 

"Maybe you want to love him because you want to be him." Sherlock added. 

"And what of you, Mr Holmes? Why do you want to love him?" She snarled. 

"Oh, that's where you've got it wrong. I don't want to love him at all. It's tedious and messy." Sherlock replied, ducking to avoid her fist. 

"Maybe we are alike. You see, I don't want to love him either. There's something about John Watson, though, something that pulls people like us in. I may not love him, but I'm more intrigued than I'm used to." She said. 

Sherlock dodged another fist and knocked her feet out from under her. Mary hit the floor but was up again quickly. 

"Are you going to kill me, Mr Holmes? Attempt to take my place? Do you really think it'll work?" She asked, suddenly brandishing a knife. 

"No. I've done enough killing. I just wanted to look you in the eye when I told you I knew. I wanted to see if you felt pain. I gather not." Sherlock said, reaching back and unlocking the bathroom door. 

Mary looked him over and tucked the knife back in its hiding place. "So you'll let me have him?" 

"No. I'll let him have you. For the next few days at least. You see, nothing I do here will change it, but if I let him have you at least he'll be happy." Sherlock said, moving away from the door. 

"You're an odd man, Mr Holmes." She said. 

"I've been called worse." He replied.   

He let her pass and breathed deeply for a moment. He was going to do this right. 

\-----

Three hours later John was starting a fire while Mary kipped on the sofa. She was beautiful laying there, golden hair glinting in the low light. He looked once more at her hand, quite happy with how his grandmother's ring looked on her. The fire took and he stood to take another sip of his brandy just as a light knock came to the door. 

He set his drink down, glanced once more at his fiancé, and opened the door. The sight in front of him had him grasping at the door frame. 

"No." He said. 

"I'm sorry, John. I truly am." Sherlock said. 

John walked backwards and sat on the edge of the coffee table. 

"I had to fake my death. They had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. If I didn't appear to die they would have killed all three of you." Sherlock said, not moving from his place on the front stoop. 

"Three snipers? Moriarty?" John asked. 

"Yes. May I come in?" Sherlock asked, voice still a stage whisper. 

John nodded and stood on shaking legs. He walked Sherlock into the bedroom and sat expectantly on the bed. Sherlock sat next to him nervously. 

"Where have you been for the past two years?" John asked. 

"A lot of places. Mostly eastern Europe. I had to take down Moriarty's web piece by piece. I had to ensure your safety. I'm sorry it took so long to come back to you." Sherlock said, honesty making him uneasy. 

"I should be angry." John said. 

"You have every right." Sherlock whispered. 

"I can't be. I've missed you so. I can't bear to be angry now that I have you back." John said, grasping Sherlock's hand in his. 

Sherlock let him, curling his fingers in John's sweaty grip. 

"Some people knew. I didn't leave you out to hurt you. They couldn't have known, and you were the only one they were watching. I'm sorry I couldn't have figured out a better way." Sherlock said. 

John bit his lip and flared his nostrils. 

"The only thing that kept me alive, through the cold nights and the beatings, was knowing it was for you. It's always been for you." Sherlock said, hesitating before enveloping John in his arms. 

The door behind them opened and Mary walked in with a gun in her hand. 

"I should have guessed. Man like you just doesn't know when to quit." She said. 

"Mary?" John asked. 

Sherlock stood up and faced her. She looked back and forth between them angrily. 

"You don't get him, Sherlock. You had plenty of chances, but you never took them. He's mine now." Mary said, pointing the gun directly at Sherlock's heart. 

"So you'll what? Kill me? In front of your fiancé? You'd do that to John?" Sherlock asked, unfortunately knowing that this was a move she was willing to make. 

Mary shrugged and nodded. "He got over you dying before, thanks to me of course, he'll get over it again." 

John shot up at that. "Now wait a goddamn minute! What in the bleeding hell is going on?" 

"Mary has some secrets, John. I thought I could come in and apologize and be gone, but it seems that isn't working." Sherlock said. 

John lunged forward to work the gun from Mary's hands. Sherlock saw it happening in slow motion. Her finger squeezed the trigger and the bullet flew through the air. It went through John's chest and out his back before lodging in Sherlock. John fell back, knocking Sherlock to the ground under him. 

He felt the warmth of the blood covering him. John was shaking and saying something and Mary was yelling at them. She threw the gun down and ran from the room. 

"This isn't how it was supposed to go." Sherlock said. 

John started coughing up blood and Sherlock wrapped his arm around his waist. 

"Let the shock take you, John. This isn't permanent. I promise this isn't permanent. This isn't how it was supposed to go." Sherlock said, feeling the tears running down his cheeks. 

Mycroft, mind palace Mycroft, showed up at his side. 

"If you want to survive this-" He began. 

"And what if I don't? What if I just want to die? Got any fucking clues?" Sherlock shouted. 

"Sherlock." John said, voice rough from choking on his own blood. "I don't want this too-" 

\-----

The pipe hit his body and he felt the crunching of bone on bone. His arms screamed for his attention. The man I front of him yelled at him in Serbian. He glanced up through ragged hair to see his brother's feet. 

"Mycroft." He wheezed. 

Mycroft looked up, stunned. The man in front of Sherlock turned and looked at Mycroft. He stalked over and Mycroft pulled out his gun and shot him in the head. 

"Bloody hell. Just couldn't keep your mouth shut for five more minutes." Mycroft cursed, running over and untying Sherlock, then throwing him over his shoulder and making it out the back door and into the corridor.


	9. One More Go?

They made it down the corridor and out the back quickly. The alarms were blaring as the helicopter took off with them in it. Mycroft was yelling commands through his mobile as a doctor saw to Sherlock's wounds. The whole situation was a bit mad, but Sherlock had seen madder. 

"You insolent child!" Mycroft hissed. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I could have got you out in less than five minutes, and instead you had to blow our cover! Do you have any idea the work I put in? Hmm?" Mycroft asked. 

"Yes, Mycroft, I'm sure it was positively hellish. Was the food you got as terrible as mine?" Sherlock snapped. 

"You ungrateful little-" Mycroft began. 

"I was supposed to be extracted two weeks ago. Maybe if you'd shown up before they started cutting I'd be more civilized in my thanks."

Mycroft huffed and looked away. "I had something in Libya." 

"Yes, well, I'm sure they said thank you in a timely fashion."

Mycroft started shouting again but Sherlock simply ignored him and closed his eyes. He would have to decide now how to handle the next two years. If he worked quickly he could make it through in a month. 

When this thing had first started he thought he wouldn't be able to make it, not with the knowledge that John had found someone while he was gone. He saw things differently now. This one stretch and he'd get his John back. The one that he'd helped, the one that looked at him with such admiration. 

All the pain that his apparent death had caused John would be wiped away. It would be back to inside jokes and hero worship. Back to the two of them against the rest of the world. 

"For God's sake, Sherlock! Pay attention to me when I'm talking to you!" Mycroft shouted. 

Sherlock smiled and sighed dramatically. "Sorry, blud, I've got places to be." 

Mycroft had a moment to breathe before Sherlock jumped from the helicopter. The wind whipped around Sherlock's face in the dark and he felt free for the first time in years. Destiny may have decided to take Sherlock down a different path, but they were going there on his terms. 

He screamed as he hit the first of the trees. 

\-----

"And you know what this is." Said the tall man in Serbian. 

Sherlock lifted his head, tasting the blood in his mouth and remembering this room. It was what the workers called 'the dungeon'. Lazy nickname, if not accurate. He looked over his captor and took everything in; lonely marriage, in love with a coworker, two years away from retirement, daughter who was raped by an immigrant. He recoiled, but did what he had to do. 

"I've got it on tape, you know." He said with a grin. "Your daughter squealed like a pig." 

The man's eyes widened as Sherlock made a stealing noise. He plunged the knife into Sherlock's belly. There was so much heat when it went in. The knife was pulled roughly up and he was vomiting blood. 

\-----

He woke with a start. The cold air in the small cabin bit at his skin. He looked around slowly, remembering this place well; he'd stayed here several times. He stretched and was happy to find that none of his future injuries left had effect on his body, then walked to the small kitchen and started the fire. If he put a pot of water on then he could have a bath in an hour. 

He filled the large pot and a kettle with rainwater from he reservoir out back and set it over the fire, scrubbed a hand across his jaw and ran fingers through his long hair. He went back to the small bedroom and ate some of the rations. The bar was thick and sticky, but it felt good going down. 

The kettle was steaming by the time he walked back into the kitchen. He poured himself some water and made a cup of tea while he watched the wildlife out the front window. A large buck walked by, rustling the grass and making a few doves take to the sky. 

When Sherlock had first realised that he'd have to relive this it had seemed impossible. But, just like before, this was all about John. About seeing John again, and he'd live through anything for that. He couldn't have the last time he was with John be them bleeding out on the floor. He had to go back. He'd take this small break, and then mind over matter. 

After he was done with his tea he got out his gun and checked the chamber, then wrote a small note for the owner of the cabin, thanking him again for being a good friend, and promising him all was well, even though he was dead. He shaved with cold water in the small mirror and then brought the hot water and some cold to the tub. The bath was soothing and he stayed in it until his fingers and toes were pruney. 

He dried off and put on his pants and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers gripped the gun and he raised it to his head, pushing it into his mouth and positioning it carefully. He took a deep breath, and thought 'to John', before pulling the trigger. 

\-----

"Are you sure you can't stay longer?" The small woman behind the counter said in German. 

"I'm quite sure." He said.

She smiled and nodded. He walked back out the front door as she moved down the hallway, slipping past tourists in fancy clothes and around the back of the building. He stood in shadow and pulled the gun from his waistband, slipped it into his mouth and pulled the trigger again. 

\-----

His breathing was constricted and he thought he might pass out. He let go of the man strangling him and let the dark take him. 

\-----

A bullet tore through his shoulder. He would try to remember to be kinder on John's injury, it really did hurt. He heard the gun cock and stood up. The woman behind the bullet didn't flinch. She squeezed the trigger and shot him in the head. 

\-----

"So, Mr House, tell us why you broke in." A Ukrainian speaking man asked. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, something you're allowed after being shot in the head thrice, and took the man in. Secrets? One. But, oh, it was a big one. He turned to the man next to him and smiled. 

"He's fucking your wife. Your son is his." He said in Ukrainian. 

The man turned to look at Sherlock's captor and started yelling. While they were going at it Sherlock grabbed the man's gun and made it an even four. 

\-----

"Drop the gun!" A large man yelled. 

Sherlock raised the gun instead, and felt a bullet tear through his chest. He was choking almost instantaneously on his own blood, feeling it pouring out of him. He closed his eyes and counted down from ten. 

\-----

"Don't you ever sleep?" The pretty woman across from him asked. 

"Not much." He answered honestly. 

She passed him a coffee and he took it. He looked at the cup and sighed.   
"Is it not how you like it? I can make another." She said cheerfully. 

"No, thank you. It's exactly what I need." Sherlock said, drinking it down quickly. 

Her smile grew as he breathed out and then slumped against the chair. 

"You're not as clever as you think, Mr Holmes." She said. 

His eyes closed. 

\-----

"I'm not supposed to be here." Mycroft hissed. 

Sherlock blinked and then smiled. 

"Do you remember your favorite green jumper that got lost in the summer of '89?" Sherlock asked. 

"Sherlock, this really isn't the time." Mycroft hissed, standing closer to the building. 

"Do you?" Sherlock demanded. 

"Yes." Mycroft spit. 

"I lit it on fire." Sherlock exclaimed, biting down on the capsule in his mouth. 

Mycroft looked on in horror as he ran around the corner. Three steps and the seizures started. Four and-

\-----

The man gripped his hand and pulled him around the edge of the bed. It took a moment to remember where he was. He trialed a hand down his waist and wrapped it around his cock. 

"Come on, Sherly, just like old times." He said as he started to fist his own prick. 

Sherlock felt himself begin to harden and looked at the mobile in his pocket. A year and a half to go. He could use a break. 

"God! I need you in me!" The man moaned. 

Sherlock tossed the mobile aside and peeled off his trousers. 

"Only if I can call you John." Sherlock said. 

"Oh you always were a weird one. Fine, I'll be your blogger." The man replied. 

Sherlock reached out and turned off the lights. He removed his shirt and took the lube and condom from the man's hands. The man was writing on the bed, already pumping two fingers into himself. Sherlock put on the condom, slicked up his cock and knelt on the edge of the bed. 

"I'm going to fuck you now. I won't be gentle, I know you want it rough." Sherlock whispered. 

The man rolled his hips and pulled his fingers out. Sherlock slipped between his thighs and pulled his knees over his shoulders. He held his cock at the man's hole and pushed quickly in. The head popped through and Sherlock moaned loudly as the heat enveloped him. He pushed all the way in and stilled. 

"Brilliant." The man whispered. 

Sherlock pulled out and then pushed back in. It felt so good. Fuck. If he could just pretend it was John. His John. 

"So tight!" He hissed. 

The man below him clenched his arsehole and it took Sherlock's breath away. He pulled back and then sank all the way in once more before setting up a bruising rhythm. He bent the man nearly in half as he buried his face in his neck and pummeled him roughly. He was almost there, he just needed a little more. 

His lover reached out and gripped his arse tightly. It was almost too much. He was so close. He needed something to put him over the edge. 

"Come for me. Come for your captain." The man whispered. 

Sherlock shook and buried himself deep. "Oh!" 

The man beneath him shuddered and came all over himself, whimpering and gripping at Sherlock's sweaty skin. Sherlock came and collapsed on top of him. They lay there breathing for a while without saying a word. 

"So what are you doing in Prague?" The man asked softly. 

Sherlock pulled out and stood shakily. "Come now, Victor, you know I don't do small talk." 

The man lay still as Sherlock dragged a cloth over his belly and then between his legs. 

"I missed you." Victor said as Sherlock turned away. 

"You missed having sex with me. There's a difference." Sherlock said as he poured them both a glass of water. 

"Would you let me fuck you more often if I pretended to be him? I could rustle up a uniform and everything." 

Sherlock passed him the water and sat on the bed with a deep sigh. 

"I'm not allowed to want that? Are you still mad at me over your brother? It was just a bit of fun." Victor said with a sad smile. 

"No, I don't care about you and my brother. I remember the last time you stayed with me. The time you stole all my coke. Do you remember that, Victor?" Sherlock asked, annoyance showing. 

"We both stole from each other. I'm off it now, though. Have been for a few years. Could use a roommate. Where do you plan on settling after all this is over?" Victor asked. 

"Leave it, Vic." Sherlock admonished. 

"I missed you, Sherlock." Victor whispered. 

"I need a smoke." Sherlock shot back. 

He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out onto the balcony with his trousers in his hand. He needed out. Sure, it would be nice to spend another few days in bed with Vic, but that wouldn't do anyone any good. The longer he was around his old roommate the more he wanted John. They were polar opposites, Victor was the bad where John was the good. Victor brought out the bad in Sherlock, the perverse, he didn't need that. 

He pulled the gun out of his trousers and cocked it just as Victor walked up behind him. He put the safety back on and rolled his eyes. 

"Forgot your lighter." Victor said, reaching over his shoulder to hand it to him. 

Sherlock took it and set the pile down on the small table. Victor rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"You'll stick around, won't ya? One more go?" He whispered. "We could use the gun if you want. I could play hostage." 

"Fine. But I need to leave by tonight. When did you eat last?" Sherlock asked. 

Victor shrugged and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"It's been a few days." Victor admitted. 

"No wonder you're so clingy. Let's get dinner." Sherlock said, slipping into his trousers, sans pants, and walking to get his shirt. 

"I like the hair, by the way." Victor said. 

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock sighed. 

Victor smiled a bit, dressed quickly and followed him out the front door. 

\-----

After dinner at a small deli and getting Victor to put back the salami he tried to steal, the two men ended up at the edge of a river. They sat on a dock with their legs hanging over the edge. Victor tried to hold Sherlock's hand twice. Sherlock let him do it the third time. A boat full of tourists passed by and Victor rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I know why you like him." Victor said after a long time. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, not really wanting to go down this road. 

"Watson. I know why you like him. He's just like you." Victor said. 

Sherlock snorted, but Victor went on. 

"I saw something about him on the news. Seemed pretty smart. Punched some copper. The kind of guy who stands up for what he believes in."

"And that's how you see me, is it?" Sherlock asked. 

"Remember when Sebastian called me a poofter in chemistry and you hit him?" Victor asked. 

Sherlock nodded slowly. "I ended up talking with the chancellor while you looted my room. You sold two of my favorite books." 

"I said I was sorry. Those guys were gonna kill me if I didn't pay up." Victor said softly. "I did make it up to you." 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled the cigarettes out. He lit one and passed it over. 

"I was glad you got off the drugs." Victor said after the first drag. 

Sherlock took a pull and blew a smoke ring into the air. 

"So glad you moved in with my brother." Sherlock added. 

Victor shrugged and took the cigarette back. "Thought he'd see that I was the bad influence. Guess it never came off like that." 

"He knew you were a bad influence. Suppose he just thought I shouldn't have been so weak." 

Victor handed him the cigarette back and slipped into the water. The sun was going down and he looked practically giddy. He disappeared under the surface for a second and Sherlock remembered what it was really like being with Victor. It was exciting. Sure, they always ended up in trouble, but it was exciting. Victor surfaced and shook his hair. 

"Ducks shit in there, you know." Sherlock said. 

"It's not too cold. Why don't you come in?" Victor said, splashing a bit. 

"Did you not hear what I said about the ducks?" 

Victor swam away with a grin and Sherlock tore his shirt off and slipped in. Victor was a fucking liar. The water was bloody freezing. He moved as quickly as he could to try to stay warm. 

"Victor, you little shit!" He hollered. 

Victor swam back and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. He leaned in close and just as Sherlock opened his mouth he pushed him under. Sherlock coughed and sputtered as Victor swam away. 

"I'm gonna bloody kill you, Vic!" He shouted. 

He swam back to the shore in time to see Victor being hauled out of the water by a cop. The man was pointing at a sign and Victor was shrugging his shoulders. Sherlock got out and grabbed his shirt, then went and apologised to the policeman himself. Victor stood looking like a kicked puppy. 

After some negotiation and a few crona Sherlock was able to drag Victor away. They walked back to the hotel in silence. Once inside Sherlock ran the water in the tub and stripped them. They climbed into the tub and Victor rested against Sherlock's chest. 

"Why do you always have to get us into trouble?" Sherlock asked as he rubbed soap into Victor's chest hair. 

"Why do you always bother getting me out of trouble?" Victor asked. 

"I don't know." Sherlock answered. 

"Me either." Victor said, resting his head back and closing his eyes. 

Sherlock let the water take the chill out of them and cleaned the muck from under their fingernails. Once the water had gone tepid he pulled the plug and moved Victor to the bed. He started a fire and opened the balcony door. 

"Are you sure you won't need a roommate?" Victor asked sleepily. "I could make it worth your while." 

Sherlock sighed and sat down next to him on the bed. He ran his fingers through Vic's short hair and kissed his forehead. 

"I'm sorry I asked you to pretend to be him." He whispered. 

Victor smiled and shrugged. "I don't mind. No one ever wants me to be me anyways." 

Sherlock lay down behind him and pulled him close. He ran his hand down to run through the coarse hair surrounding his cock. 

"It's just you and me now, okay?" Sherlock asked. 

Victor nodded and gasped as Sherlock wrapped his fist around his half hard prick. 

"Just you and me, Vic." He whispered. 

Victor hardened in his grip and was soon thrusting into his fist. Sherlock tightened his grip and sucked on Victor's neck and the younger man was soon coming thick ropes all over the bed. Sherlock rutted against his back a bit more and came as well. 

He used a shirt from the floor to clean them off then stood. 

"Are you leaving?" Victor asked. 

He sounded worried and his eyes were big and almost wet. His hair was ruffled and Sherlock lay back down next to him, leaving the gun where it was and pulling the covers up. 

"No, Vic. I'm right here." He said. 

Victor sighed and closed his eyes. "I always loved you, Sherly." 

"I know Vic." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes as well. "I know." 

\-----

He breathed in smoke and heard gunfire. He tried to work out where he was before he opened his eyes. Then he tried to open his eyes. Swollen shut, and damn did his head hurt. Poland. Of course.


	10. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We make it out the other end.

He heard two men screaming indistinctly. It was hard to tell where they were as the sounds of the firefight surrounded him and he couldn't see. This had to be at least a week before he met Victor in Prague, but his mind simply wouldn't let him remember more than the fact that he was in Poland. 

He could have sworn he was supposed to be in Czechoslovakia. Was it possible that he was moving back at a faster rate? How many times had he died in the last twenty four hours alone? How many more before he was allowed the respite of John's company once more? 

His wrists were cut free and a hand guided him to his feet. The fingers were agile and strong but the skin was soft. Long nails dug into him as warm breath ghosted over his ear. 

"When I say run...well, you know the rest." The Woman said while pressing a gun into his open palm. 

Sherlock cocked it and brought it up to brush against his lips. He felt The Woman pull away in what he knew must be confusion as he pushed the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. 

\-----

"Do you miss him? I bet he misses you. We always pretended you were the friendless freak, but I suppose it's worse  to be surrounded by friends who don't really know you. His birthday is next week. Did you remember? Maybe you don't know what day it is, maybe you deleted it." The man's voice said. 

Sherlock looked up in a haze to see a tall man standing with a vest full of explosives. He looked frightened, in perfect juxtaposition to his words. Sherlock remembered how John had looked when he had the same type of vest strapped to him. He didn't looked frightened so much as disappointed. 

That was what threw him at the time. If John would have looked frightened he might not have had that initial worry that John WAS Moriarty. This man looked like a madman had strapped him with semtex and was whispering disgusting things in his ear. John had looked like someone was telling him to give them his lunch money. Sherlock swore that if he hadn't been involved John might have rolled his eyes. He smiled a bit at that. 

"You find this funny?" The man asked, sweat making its way down his cheek. 

"I have a different point of reference than I used to. Things just get worse, so, yes, I find this funny. My worst case scenario right now involves you talking to me while I try to nod off." Sherlock said, voice turning conspiratorial before going on. "But that's to the person telling you what to say, not you. I'm sure you've done nothing wrong, and if John were here he would be telling me that ignoring your suffering is more than a bit not good." 

"My, my, how we've changed. Could it be the great Sherlock Holmes has grown a conscience?" The man said with unconvincing theatrics. 

Sherlock scrunched up his brow. "I wouldn't say grown. Borrowed? Yes, I think I've borrowed a conscience. The voice in my head telling me not to be such a dick isn't my own, after all." 

"So, Watson has put you on the straight and narrow. I knew he was my real adversary." The man muttered. 

"I don't believe it's Jim, so you can drop the act. Who's actually under there? Sebastian? Are you there, Tiger? I suppose that would make sense, after all, what's a play thing to do when it's master is gone?" Sherlock asked teasingly. 

The man in front of him dropped to his knees and promptly fell to a pile on the floor. There wasn't even a red dot to warn Sherlock before he the man was bleeding from a hole in his head. Small caliber and the sound of the bullet passing him meant Sebastian was close. The fact was further proved when a door opened, someone approached and a large hand gripped his hair and pulled his head back roughly. 

"You didn't shoot him." The new voice drawled. 

"I didn't have to. He shot himself." Sherlock answered honestly. 

This time the tug to his hair was more than a bit painful. His eyes watered and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. 

"You know men like us. Once the game isn't any fun we just bow out." He whispered. "Did you think he loved you?" 

A knife was raised to his throat. It wasn't very large, but with a man like the Tiger it didn't need to be. The danger lay in his hand, not the size of the blade. 

"It's not smart to tease someone like me, Mr Holmes." Sebastian spit. 

"Perhaps my genius was a fabrication. Wasn't that was the boss was trying to get everyone to believe?" Sherlock hissed. 

Sebastian pressed the knife slowly against his carotid artery. 

"Did you ever get to fuck him?" Sherlock asked. 

The knife pressed harder. 

"It was a lot of fun. He always let me-" Sherlock lied. 

He was cut off, no pun intended, when the blade pulled tight against him. Things went dark quite quickly. 

\-----

After that Sherlock really got the hang of things. He didn't sit and chat, didn't think about what to do next, he simply acted. It took less than four days to get back through the rest of his time away. He didn't need to sleep, so it was over before he expected it to be. 

\-----

He blinked slowly and almost didn't catch the small ball he'd been bouncing. 

"I got your message." John said. 

Sherlock looked up at him and his brain nearly broke. He knew where he was (lab at Bart's) and when it was (right before his foray with Jim on the roof) but he couldn't wrap his mind around the John Watson standing in front of him. He was so different. Nothing so visible as the change brought on by the moustache, but just as palpable. 

The John he remembered most recently seemed almost adrift, whereas this John, his John, was anchored wholly to him. He swore if it were any stronger there would be an actual physical string connecting them. He smiled slightly and felt the pull himself. 

"John." He murmured, realising for the first time (obvious) that the pull people noticed in John went both ways. 

John smiled a confused little smile and Sherlock remembered what it was like to breathe. He stood and walked closer to John, hand relaxing and ball bouncing away without his notice. John watched it go and when his eyes flicked back to Sherlock's it was obvious that there was more beneath the surface than Sherlock had seen before. 

"John." Sherlock repeated, letting John's name roll off his tongue like sacrament. 

"Are you alright? We are in the middle of a huge battle." John said with a slight grin. 

Sherlock gripped John's hand and pulled him closer. 

"Let's go to the country." Sherlock found himself saying. 

John snorted and pulled away. 

"Sherlock, if you think running away will deter Moriarty, you're wrong." John said, straightening his shoulders and cracking his neck. 

"I don't care about Moriarty." He replied honestly. 

John laughed nervously. "Yeah, right." 

"I mean it, John. Things have happened and I've been thinking. Lunatics like Moriarty and Magnussen come and go, they're cyclical. They don't matter. You matter."

"Magnussen? Who's Magnussen? Sherlock, don't fool around we need to-" John interrupted. 

"No. Molly was right. She told me I look sad when you aren't looking. She knew all along. I thought that I shouldn't tell you because you don't feel the same way. Well, that's half true. The other half has to do with fear. I don't feel like going into that right now."

John pressed the back of his hand against Sherlock's brow. 

"I'm not ill, John." Sherlock said sternly. "I'm not sure how you've missed it all these years, but it's probably to do with me. I'm not good at showing feelings deeper than frustration and boredom." 

John stood back with a look close to wonder on his face. Sherlock figured it was better than apprehension. 

"I care about you a great deal, more than I was comfortable with. Before you give me some half cocked theory on this having to do with never having friends I'll stop you. I'm not crossing wires. You aren't the first person I've been affectionate with."

Sherlock thought that John looked hurt for a second, but he couldn't be sure. 

"You are, however, the first person I've ever loved. That may be the reason it took me so long to notice, or at least to understand, what it was that I was feeling. I know you don't feel the same romantically, as you've made quite clear, but I hope you at least share some of the sentiment. And if you had doubts I hope I've cleared it up a bit." 

Sherlock rested back against the counter, tired from expressing something he wasn't sure he'd be able to. He watched John carefully, noting the slight sway in his stance before he took a step closer. 

"Yes." John said breathlessly after a few long moments. 

Sherlock cocked his head. "Yes, what?" 

"Yes, let's bloody run away. The only reason I've stuck around was to watch after you. Moriarty's bloody insane, let's get the hell out of dodge!" John said, tentative smile turning brazen. 

Sherlock smiled back.


	11. Pair Of Idiots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock run away. It suits them.

As John followed Sherlock out to the car park he pulled his mobile out. He knew that they couldn't run forever, but he also knew that this was something they needed quite badly. He went to his contacts and typed out a message. 

WE'RE GOING AWAY FOR A WHILE. FIGURE THIS THE FUCK OUT. NO EXCUSES. 

He got a response immediately. 

UNDERSTOOD. MH 

He took the mobile and tossed it in a bin. 

"Sherlock. Give me your mobile. You can keep the burner, but we need to get rid of the other one." He said. 

Sherlock looked surprised for a second, probably just remembering now that John wasn't an idiot, then pulled his mobile out and hesitantly handed it over. John tossed it as well and smiled as they continued outside. 

"They're still looking for us." John said. 

"We'll take the long way and I'll cause a distraction." Sherlock said as he took out a small leather envelope and proceeded to break into a van. "Lay down in the back. We can't look too suspicious." 

They got in and he took out the burner mobile. He typed a few messages and then called a number. 

"You know what to do. South London if you please." Sherlock said before ringing off. 

He looked back at John before starting to hot wire the van. 

"I have a few of my homeless network who look a bit like us. They might happen to have surprisingly good disguises. They'll look exactly like a certain detective and his blogger." 

John smiled and shook his head. "You always think of everything, don't you?" 

"I have several contingency plans." Sherlock replied with a sad smile. 

John quirked an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Sherlock pulled the van out of the space and John lay down as best he could. 

\-----

The ride seemed to take forever. Sherlock made several cryptic phone calls on the way, but didn't stop driving for at least two hours. It was lucky that they didn't need to stop for petrol. As the van started on what must be a gravel road John sat up. 

"If I have to lay down for this I might vomit." He said with a wince. 

Sherlock smirked and drove on. The road turned into an even bumpier trail through a thick grove of trees and came out on a small clearing. Sherlock put the van in park and they got out. He took John down a path that led to a small cabin. An elderly man was sitting in a chair reading a book. He set it down as they approached and frowned at them. John felt his stomach turn over. 

"Sherlock Holmes." The man said gruffly. 

Sherlock walked towards him and stuck out his hand. 

"Mr Seaward. It's been a while." He said calmly. 

"Too bloody long." The man said, taking Sherlock's hand and then pulling him into a tight hug. 

John was surprised to see tears in the man's eyes. The man then turned to John and held his hand out. 

"You must be Watson. Glad to see Sherlock's finally found someone. Doesn't bother me that you're a man." The man said with a serious expression. 

For the first time in their years together John didn't bother to correct the man in front of Sherlock. He simply cleared his throat and glanced sideways at Sherlock before grasping the man's hand and shaking it. 

"Good to meet you, sir. Thank you for taking us in at such short notice." John said. 

The man nodded and showed them in. There was a sitting room with a fire already going in the hearth. Mr Seaward left them alone after a bit, promising to bring dinner by in a few hours. When they were finally alone Sherlock spoke. He didn't look John in the eye. 

"You didn't seem too offended when he assumed we were lovers."

John shrugged and looked through the cabinets for tea. "May not be true, but I don't find it offensive." 

Sherlock must have looked shocked because John smiled and shook his head. 

"Were you under the impression that I did?"

Sherlock looked away and cleared his throat. "Perhaps." 

John smiled softly and filled the kettle. While the water was heating he went over to the small bookcase and looked through the offerings. There were a lot of bird watching guides but he was able to find an old, well used detective novel. He sat down with it and opened to the first page. 

The whole time he read Sherlock stood looking out the window, his mind reeling. What had changed things? Why was John suddenly able to ignore someone's suggestions that he was gay whereas he'd been so stern, almost angry, about them before. It wasn't as if Sherlock had changed, he was the same person he had been back then...wasn't he? 

The kettle whined and he was pulled from his own mind. He looked over at John as he got up to make them tea. John looked more relaxed than he had in a very long time. A fire lit in Sherlock's chest as it often did when he looked at John, and for once he didn't force it back down. 

\-----

Mr Seaward brought fresh vegetables and fish to the cabin around six and John started some water to boil and deboned the fish. Sherlock read his messages and spent more time at the window. The dead of winter outside seemed to calm him. After a while John called him to the table. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the sun was down and the nocturnal creatures were starting to stir. 

"So what made you decide so suddenly that you didn't care about going head to head with Moriarty?" John asked as he served them. 

"He was coming between us." Sherlock replied honestly. 

He immediately regretted it, wondering when he had stopped filtering his words. John paused with the serving fork above his plate and he was sure there was a flush beginning to reach up his neck. 

"You picked me over Moriarty?" He asked, still standing stiff. 

Sherlock glanced up and tried to seem confident. "Were you under the impression that I wouldn't?"  He asked, parroting John's earlier statement. 

John swallowed and finished serving him. 

The dinner was passed in silence. They often spent time in silence together, Sherlock counted their companionable silences among his best memories, but this night was different. Sherlock caught John watching him carefully several times. Each time he did John would do one of his unconscious ticks; fingers drumming out a beat, lips being licked, throat being cleared. 

When John was done he cleared both their plates and joined Sherlock on the sofa. If he sat closer than he usually did Sherlock pretended not to notice. John read his book as Sherlock went through the possibilities for the days to come. He wanted badly to be able to spend the whole time taking with John, but it seemed that talking was off the table. 

Sherlock got up after an hour and knelt before the hearth. He felt John's eyes on him as he started a fire and stood to walk to the kitchen. As he had requested, Mr Seaward had brought them a bottle of fairly good scotch. He figured that he deserved to relax a little after all he'd gone through. 

"Would you like a glass?" He asked John. 

John looked up and chewed his lip before nodding. Sherlock poured them both a few fingers and brought a small radio with him to the sofa. He handed John his drink and tuned the radio to a public station. They were doing an hour long TED talks special on lying. They sat back and listened to an array of experts explain why people lie and how they tend to do it. When the talk was over Sherlock gave them some more scotch and switched the radio to a classical station. 

John pretended to read, but after twenty minutes of 'reading' the same page he set the book down and faced Sherlock.

"This person you were affectionate with...who were they?" John asked at last. 

"Have you been thinking about that all day?" Sherlock asked with a small grin. 

John shrugged and played with his glass. 

"It was in uni. We dated for several years, but he wasn't a good influence." Sherlock admitted. 

John looked up with a careful expression on his face. He was obviously trying to hide something, whether it be jealousy or concern Sherlock didn't know. 

"Things ended badly." Sherlock added. 

"So you...swore off that kind of thing. Did he hurt you?" John asked. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why does everyone always assume you have to be hurt to decide to abstain from relationships? He didn't hurt me, I just eventually got tired of him being careless." 

John took a sip of his drink and cleared his throat for quite possibly the seventh time that day. "So you haven't had anyone since then?" 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit. "I didn't mean abstain in that way. I just don't bring anyone home...and before you ask, I'm careful. I came out of my heroin addiction without any diseases and I wanted to keep it that way." 

"So you...go to clubs? I didn't know." 

"I haven't been in a long time. It's not something I feel like participating in. You can practically smell the idiocy from the street." Sherlock said. 

"So you prefer men?" John asked. 

Sherlock nodded gently. 

"Have you been with a woman?" John asked, wondering how this had turned into twenty (very intimate) questions. 

"No. Have you been with a man?" Sherlock countered. 

"No." John lied. 

Sherlock glanced up at him and John felt his stomach clench at the hurt look. 

"I mean, not in a while." He amended. 

Sherlock got up and poured them another drink. When he sat down again he moved closer to John than before, crossing his legs and letting their knees touch. 

"John." He said, that deep voice doing things to the man he was addressing. "What's the sudden fascination with my sexuality?" 

John blushed and looked away. 

"You said I wasn't the first person you'd been affectionate with. I guess I'd always assumed-"

"That I was a virgin. Most do. Mycroft doesn't help the case, but that's just brotherly vindictiveness." Sherlock interrupted. 

They sat in silence for a bit more before Sherlock asked the question he'd been wanting to ask. "It doesn't bother you that I'm in love with you?" 

John finished his drink and set it down on the table. He ran a hand through his hair and Sherlock noticed a rosy tint had spread all the way up to his ears. A bit of hair stuck up when he lowered his hand and Sherlock reached out to brush it back behind his ear. John closed his eyes and held his breath. 

"John?" 

John bit his lip and shook his head. Sherlock, who had more alcohol than he probably should have, let his hand rest against John's neck. The skin there was hot and soft. 

"Does this bother you?" He asked, running his thumb along the junction of John's neck and jaw. 

John breathed sharply but shook his head. Sherlock folded his legs beneath him and leaned over to speak in his ear. John was thrumming with energy. 

"Does this bother you?" Sherlock murmured. 

John's eyes slipped open and he turned his head to seal their lips together. It wasn't chaste. It was far from it. The kiss, their first kiss, was slow but passionate, filled with enough emotion to short circuit the brain of one of the most cerebral men in the world. 

John sighed and pressed his tongue between Sherlock's lips as the taller man ran his hand up to card through the hair at the base of John's skull. Sherlock's mouth tasted like scotch and tea and John shivered at the thought of what the rest of him might taste like. He hadn't had a man since his army days, and he hadn't wanted to. It was hard to explain, even to himself, but he only ever wanted one man. That, of course, was before Sherlock Holmes. 

Now that he was kissing him he wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock's strong arms wrapped around his back as they made love. He wanted to have those dextrous fingers in his hair as he let Sherlock's cock press into his mouth. He wanted to hear that deep, dark voice when Sherlock finally spilled into his mouth. He wanted to hear it say 'suck harder'. When they finally pulled apart both breathed roughly. 

"That was...unexpected." Sherlock whispered at length. 

John snorted. "For as perceptive as you are you've missed a lot." 

Sherlock looked baffled and it was John's turn to roll his eyes. 

"I've always fancied you. Then we spent more time together...I'm not good at this sort of thing." John said exasperatedly. 

"What sort of thing?" Sherlock asked, letting his hands rest on John's knees. 

"Being in love with a bloody man!" John said a bit louder than necessary.

"Oh." Sherlock exclaimed, mouth hanging open.

John chuckled softly. "How on earth could you not have known? I thought I was being so damn obvious." 

"You always had a girlfriend." Sherlock shot back without much venom. 

"Yeah, and you always had the Work. We're a pair of idiots." John replied.

"The thing we did...the kissing thing...could we do that again?" Sherlock asked sheepishly.

"Yeah." John said as he leaned forward and gripped Sherlock's neck. "I think so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'suck harder' bit was inspired by my amazing girlfriend Jess. She texted me something wonderfully sinful yesterday. Transcript below. 
> 
> ' Also imagine the things Ben might say and the noises he might make during a blow job, just imagine him whispering something simple like "god yes suck it harder". I bet it's fucking beautiful. '
> 
> How did I ever deserve someone so perfect for me???


	12. Can't Help It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn. Poooooooorn. Porn.

Sherlock let John grip his neck gently and run his tongue between his lips. Heat pooled low in his abdomen as their tongues dragged against each other. He found himself wrapping his arms around John's shoulders and becoming quite desperate to be closer. John's hands slipped down to his hips and pulled him into his lap. 

Sherlock shivered and ran his fingers into John's hair. He needed to remember what it felt like between his fingers, how it felt when he gripped it, so that when this amazing dream was over and he woke up alone in the not so distant past he would still know what it was like to have John Watson. He pushed the sad thought aside and simply felt. 

John's hands became more frantic, grabbing onto his hips and pulling him closer. Sherlock drew in a surprised breath, why he was surprised he didn't know, when his cock rubbed against John's chest and he felt John's against his arse. 

John broke the kiss and looked Sherlock in the eyes. His breath was already labored and Sherlock took a small amount pride of in that, in the fact that he could arouse John 'three continents' Watson simply by kissing him. He wondered if John that he'd found out about his nickname. It made him smile. 

"I think we should take this to the bedroom." John said, voice rough and deeper than usual. "I'm not a teenager anymore and I'd rather not come in my pants on the sofa." 

Sherlock, who found himself lacking in the verbal department, nodded and got up from John's lap. His legs felt weak and for one frightening moment he thought he wouldn't make it to the bedroom. John, who knew Sherlock and saw the sudden distress and lack of physical grace, wrapped an arm around his waist and led him to the bed. 

He pushed Sherlock down and climbed atop him, quickly sealing their lips together and eliciting a grunt as he ground his hips down. He chuckled against Sherlock's lips and moved down to his neck. Sherlock gripped his arse and rolled his hips roughly. John moaned and bit down on his neck. 

Sherlock flipped them over and quickly unfastened John's jeans, slipping them and his pants off and tossing them to the floor. He sucked in a deep breath and looked up at John for permission, running his hands up and down John's naked thighs. John nodded and moaned loudly as Sherlock licked a stripe up his leaking cock. 

John had often thought of Sherlock's plump lips on his prick; in sweat soaked darkness, in his bed late at night, guiltily while being sucked by some girlfriend. Reality was infinitely better than fantasy. 

Sherlock suckled the head as he slowly stroked from base to tip. John grunted and struggled to keep from thrusting up as Sherlock licked at the sensitive slit and moved his mouth down the shaft. He choked out a sob as his cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat and then slipped deeper. 

Sherlock pulled back and bobbed his head, soon encouraging John to thrust into his mouth with strong hand on his hips. John whimpered and pushed his hips up once. He felt Sherlock moan and did it again. They quickly fell into a steady rhythm and John felt his orgasm approaching. 

He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and warned him with a soft yank. Sherlock hummed around the shaft and reached up to fondle John's bollocks as he pushed down and let John's cock press once more deeply into him. John cried out and came, filling Sherlock with his come and whimpering as some dripped out the side of his mouth and down his chin. 

Sherlock pulled off, stroking John through the aftershocks and breathing roughly. His cheeks were a brilliant pink and his lips were swollen and shining. John pulled him up and kissed him desperately as Sherlock tried to wipe the come off his chin. John slapped his hand away and licked it off himself, the thick fluid tasting unpleasantly bitter on his tongue. He really didn't care. 

Sherlock sighed deeply as he undid his trousers and pulled his own cock out. John helped him remove them, along with his pants and shoes, and rolled them over so he could see Sherlock's lithe body. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and pushed it down his arms so his hands were trapped at his sides. He smiled wickedly but pulled the shirt all the way off at Sherlock's look of distress. 

"Sorry," he mumbled. 

Sherlock shook his head and squeezed John's hand in an attempt to comfort him. He didn't want to explain why he was uncomfortable with being restrained. Luckily John didn't press him on the subject. 

Instead he smiled, spit crudely into his hand and stroked Sherlock's cock. Sherlock moaned as John took just the tip between his lips and started pumping up and down the shaft as he ran his tongue in tantalizing circles. 

When he pulled off Sherlock whimpered as he stuck a finger in his mouth to get it slick and then went back to sucking. A loud 'hah' sound spilled from his mouth as John reached between his arsecheeks and rubbed circles around his hole. John gripped tighter as he teased Sherlock open.  
"Jesus! Oh, God! Oh, John, yes!" Sherlock mumbled as John pushed just the tip of his finger into him. 

His arsehole tightened around it and John sucked harder and moved it slightly. He was concerned that he would hurt Sherlock until the taller man moaned loudly and thrust his hips down to envelope more of John's finger in tight heat. 

He had planned on finding and massaging Sherlock's prostate, but Sherlock pulled his hair so he had to release the head of his prick. 

"I think! I think I'm going to! Oh, hell!" Sherlock mumbled as John slid his thumb over the head of his cock. 

He let his head fall back and shook as he came all over John's fist. He thought absently that it was ludicrous that this was so much more intense than having his cock shoved up Victor's arse. John stroked him until he whimpered in oversensitivity. 

He crawled up the bed and lay bonelessly next to Sherlock. His grin when Sherlock opened his eyes practically shone in the dark. Sherlock kissed John once before flopping back on the bed weakly. 

John picked up his discarded shirt and was about to clean up his hand and Sherlock's chest when Sherlock stopped him. 

"We don't have a change of clothes. Let me get a towel." He groaned. 

John giggled when Sherlock didn't actually get up, and went to get it himself. He ran it over Sherlock's belly and chest and tossed it in the corner of the room. 

"I was going to get it." Sherlock said weakly. "I just can't seem to move."  
John chuckled and removed his own shirt and let it fall next to the bed. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and kissed his neck. Sherlock hummed happily and John whispered softly that he loved him. 

"I love you too. Can't help it." Sherlock murmured. 

"Would you want to?" John asked with a small grin. 

"Maybe in an alternate universe. One where you found a wife and settled down."

John laughed at that and shook his head. "I could never love anyone after falling for you. You've ruined me for the rest of the human population. Didn't you wonder why my relationships never lasted more than a few months? Even if you disappeared, even if you were gone, I'd still love you. I'm sick with it."

"What if I died?" Sherlock asked shakily. 

John sighed deeply. "Don't be morbid. It's suits you too well." 

Sherlock turned and looked at him, trying to memorize the way John looked when he was relaxed and sex sated and in love. He must have stared for too long because John leaned in and kissed him softly. 

"Don't worry about this thing with Moriarty. Mycroft is going to figure it out and things will go back to normal." He whispered, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. 

The last bit made Sherlock feel a bit ill. He knew what normal really was, how John would act when he finally had to sleep and woke up to a defensive 'not gay' John again. He knew this couldn't last. 

"Go to sleep, yeah?" John said softly, breath warm on Sherlock's skin. 

"Yeah." Sherlock lied.


	13. Some Place Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day of domestic harmony. Another day closer to the inevitable.

John woke slowly, wanting to pull the covers over his head to block out the sunlight. He knew, however, that he'd never get back to sleep. He sighed and stretched, letting his arms fill out the small bed. Small bed? His eyes popped open and he took in the room. He felt the sheets and pillow next to him and frowned when he found them both cold. He wondered how long Sherlock had stayed with him in bed, if he even had.

There was music coming from the front of the cabin so he figured Sherlock was out there doing something. Probably some sort of experiment. Hopefully not something caustic. He stretched again and went to the loo to brush his teeth. There were two large robes on the back of the door, so he took one and made his way out to see what Sherlock was doing. 

It was the scent that hit him first. It was thick in the air and John closed his eyes immediately. For a moment he was a child again, following mum around the kitchen as she made things from scratch. For a moment he was home. He drew in a deep breath and walked into the kitchen doorway. 

Sherlock was standing with a frying pan in each hand, sweat beading on his brow, surrounded by food. There were biscuits and pasties and pancakes stacked high. He was frying eggs and bacon and sausages. He plated the various meats and eggs and opened the oven to pull out a tray of popovers and muffins. They were set on the counter and he turned with three plates in his hands. 

"John." He said, looking confused. "Did I wake you?" 

John laughed and shook his head. "No, but if you were planning on eating all this yourself we'll need to have a talk." 

Sherlock set the plates down on the small kitchen table and wiped his hands on the apron he was wearing. John waited for an explanation. Instead Sherlock cleared his throat and looked back and forth between the food as if it had just shown up and he didn't know how to explain its existence. 

"I guess I cooked some food." He said at last, a huge sigh wracking his whole body. 

John laughed harder. "No. You cooked ALL the food. I didn't even know we had enough eggs and milk to make this lot. What exactly got into you?" 

The blush that had been creeping up Sherlock's neck made its way to his cheeks and he shrugged. "I wanted to make you something you would like and it just got out of hand. I wasn't thinking. I suppose it's like the napkins." 

John raised an eyebrow. "What napkins?" 

Sherlock spun and grabbed a croissant, handing it to John and looking expectantly. John remained suspicious, not sure when he'd find out about said napkins, but took a bite. It was good. Oh, it was very good. Flaky and buttery and, for fuck's sake, why didn't he know Sherlock could cook? 

"We lived in Nice, France, for three years when I was young. The cook was very persuasive. She taught me more than I cared to know." Sherlock said as he went back to the stove. 

"Why didn't you just delete it?" John asked before taking another bite. 

"You never know when you might need the skill. The world of high stakes restaurants is cut-throat, John. Many a chef has killed or been killed in the kitchens of London." Sherlock replied, passing John a fork and ushering him to the table. 

John sat down and took a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice he was handed. "I'm not going to feel stupid later because you've done something awful I have yet to find out about?" 

Sherlock looked scandalised. "Can't I just do something nice?" 

John took a long sip of the juice and set it down. "Not in our shared history." 

Sherlock scowled as John grinned. He had to admit that it was true, though. He hadn't been very good at showing gratitude in large acts like this. He thought differently about things. He liked to show his thanks by making the people he cared about happy in ways they didn't notice. That way neither of them had to be uncomfortable with the exchange. 

John held out his hand with a small smile and pulled Sherlock into his lap. The blush he was working on grew worse as John wrapped his arms around his waist and grinned lovingly up at him. He felt like a butterfly pinned on a page. 

"Thank you." John said, reaching up to stroke along Sherlock's cheek. 

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes, and when he responded it was quick and gruff. "You don't have to thank me, John. You really don't." 

John wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down so that their lips barely brushed together. Without the alcohol of the night before Sherlock felt clumsy and awkward and wanted to dissappear. 

"I know I don't have to." John said, lips brushing gently against Sherlock's. "I'm going to though, and you can't stop me." 

Sherlock breathed roughly through his nose and turned away. John noticed how unsure he was acting, but didn't understand why. Sherlock had said he'd been in a relationship before, but it had been a long time ago. Maybe he was just unused to the affection. His response cemented it. 

"Christ, John, are you going to start writing me poetry now, too?" He said dismissively. 

John kissed his shoulder and Sherlock relaxed a bit. 

"Sherlock Holmes is afraid of romance? I thought you weren't afraid of anything!" John teased lightly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, pouting right where he was in John's lap. It was quite adorable, but John thought he might get an elbow to the head for pointing it out. 

"You just don't have to go out of you way. Nothing has to change." Sherlock said, voice tinged with a sort of trepidation. 

"And there you're wrong." John said flatly. "As far as I'm concerned, last night was permission. Permission to wine and dine you. To woo you. If you don't want romance you'll have to find some other bloke to be with." 

Sherlock sighed dramatically and slumped against John's chest. John smiled and grabbed the fork again, picking up a piece of bacon and taking a bite. Sherlock opened his mouth like a baby bird and John chuckled before holding the fork out. They ate in silence like this for a while before John couldn't eat anything more. 

"I'm right stuffed. I feel like you're trying to fatten me up." John said with a long exhale. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pressed a kiss to John's forehead. "You could do with a little more bulk." 

John pinched his bum. "Says the human beanpole!" 

Sherlock, shocked by being pinched for the first time since Grammer school, flushed a deeper pink high on his cheeks and kissed John almost ferociously. John moaned against his mouth and pulled him closer, undoing the bow on the apron and pulling it over Sherlock's head. Sherlock pressed a finger to his mouth and got up so he could straddle John. 

"Christ." John whispered breathlessly as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. 

Sherlock smiled nervously and pushed the robe down John's shoulders. John let it fall and ran his hands across Sherlock's stomach and around to his back. He rested his head on Sherlock's chest and breathed him in. 

"I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you." Sherlock whispered as he ran his fingers through John's hair. 

"Tell me what?" John asked, kissing Sherlock's skin and feeling his warmth against his face. 

"That I have...that I have feelings for you. It was hard for me to come to terms with." Sherlock admitted, feeling confident again with John's skin touching his. 

"It's okay now, it's all how it needs to be, yeah?" John murmured. "Now let's take a shower and go for a walk." 

Sherlock waited for John to look up and him and pressed their lips together shortly. He nodded and stood, following John to the tub. John let the robe fall all the way off in the loo and turned on the water. A fission of heat shot to Sherlock's cock as he stared at John's arse. He wanted to lave it with kisses and squeeze bruises into it with his fingers. 

John stood and stepped in when the water was warm, turning and pulling Sherlock's hand until he got in as well. He lathered up a flannel and started rubbing Sherlock's back with it. 

"So, what have we got on today? No telly, no Internet? How am I suppose to entertain the great Sherlock Holmes?" John asked. 

Sherlock hummed and shrugged lightly. "I was thinking we could take some samples at the lake. There are quite a few migratory birds that only nest in this area. I'd like to take some notes of the surroundings." 

"And you won't get bored?" John asked, trying for teasing but resting closer to concerned. 

Sherlock turned and took John's face in his hands. He kissed him softly and made, what felt like to John, a great declaration of love. 

"Science is everywhere, and I've got my blogger. I can do without a good murder for a while."

\-----

An hour and a half later John was up to his calves in mud and happily trudging after Sherlock. The beach was closed to the public for the winter so they were the only ones around. Mr Seaward had lent them a few pairs of fishing boots and Sherlock had found them an inlet that was thoroughly mucky and filled with small birds. 

The birds were now sitting far away watching as some bizarre human dug through their feeding grounds for the small creatures living in the sandy mud. There were holes and piles of sand covering the surface of the area they were digging in, each one an airway for mole crabs and the like. 

John was holding several bags filled with sand, beetles and isopods. He looked on happily as Sherlock shoveled up another small area and sifted through the debris. 

When they had first found their way to the water, a small area fed by the sea, Sherlock had rattled off a load of rules John was to follow. They all had to do with finding samples but leaving the wildlife and its habitat fairly intact. John was to follow in Sherlock's footsteps, literally, and not stray from his side. At first John had been a bit offended that Sherlock thought he couldn't do a little beach combing without killing off a few species, but soon he saw what it really was; concern for his surroundings. 

One thing most people didn't know about Sherlock was that he viewed everywhere he went as not only a place on a map, but a unique habitat. He knew what went on in every corner of London, but it went further than anyone suspected. He'd once stopped John from sorting the glass bottles out of the garbage, telling him that an old woman went through the trash bins within their area everyday, and they shouldn't take away her living by recycling the cans and bottles themselves. Sure enough, John saw the elderly woman several times that week. He'd never thought about it before. Sherlock viewed everything as the perfect balance it was. 

He was a scientist in the strictest regard, and he knew that meant observing things in their natural habitat. He'd spent years of his time simply watching and cataloging what type of tobacco was smoked in different parts of London. He had immense banks of information in his mind that no one cared about until it could be used to save a life. 

"I think we have all we need." Sherlock said finally. 

John looked at him, mind being brought back to the here and now, and nodded. They walked carefully back the way they came and made it to shore. John stopped to remove the waders and Sherlock helped him stay upright. He was about to rinse them when Sherlock stopped him. 

"I'll collect the residue." He said, holding his hand out expectantly. 

John set them down and crossed his arms. "You can have them as long as you take yours off now. I'm not having you dragging this all over the carpet." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but acquiesced anyhow, and John smiled softly as they made their way back to the cabin barefoot. Mr Seaward was reading on the front stoop and raised his eyebrows when they walked up.   
"I see you've done a bit of baking. I brought you more supplies." He said to John. 

"Thanks, but Sherlock's the chef. Take as much of the food as you want, we couldn't eat it all if we tried." John said, opening the door and ushering the man in. 

Sherlock stayed on the porch, going through his findings and mumbling to himself. 

Once they were in the kitchen the old man helped John pack up most of the food. He kept looking over at John, and then away when he was caught. John wondered what he wanted to say. When it finally did come it was a shock. 

"I've left the cabin to Sherlock in my will. The wife's not doing well and I've only got a few years left. We never had children and I suppose...I suppose Sherlock's the closest we've got. You'd better take care of him." The man said with stern affection. 

John collected himself before speaking. "How do you know Sherlock?" 

"Used to work for the Holmes'. He was young then, but always bright. Used to help me fix the cars and weed in the garden. Sherlock didn't come by friends well and we were all concerned...concerned he'd stay alone. He never really seemed to care about the kids his parents tried to get him to be friends with. Mrs Holmes would parade him around, inviting strangers children over to see if he and Mikey could get along. They were both rather abrasive."

"So he was always like this?" John asked. 

The man shrugged and nodded. "Relying on others has never been his forte. I see the way you two are, though, you're good for him. He's always been a bit too bright for the rest of us. You hold onto him." 

"I will." John said honestly as he led the man out. 

Sherlock didn't look up from his experiment as the old man left. John smiled softly and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

\-----

Later that night, as they were sitting together on the couch enjoying the fire, John brought up something he'd never considered before. 

"Do you think you'd want to move someplace like this when you retire? I mean, if you retire." 

Sherlock rested against him and took a long sip of his Merlot. "Mr Seaward told you he's giving me the cabin. The diagnosis must be grim."   
"Wait, did he not tell you?" John asked. 

"No. I don't think he wants me to know how serious it is." Sherlock answered. 

"Oh." John replied softly. 

"I haven't really thought of retirement. Never thought I'd make it this long, I suppose." Sherlock said quietly. "Would you like that? To retire some place like this? Somewhere quiet?" 

John swallowed and nodded slowly. 

"I think I might like that too." Sherlock said, softly kissing John's shoulder. 

The whole topic had relaxed John a bit. It unfortunately had the opposite effect on Sherlock. Like he'd said, he'd never considered retiring before, never seen the use of considering it. He always thought he'd end up dead after coming up against some foe in a back alley. Then John had come along and for a second he realised that he was a lot less likely to die with John around. Now that the idea was there he ached to be old and warn out and falling asleep in the middle of the day with John by his side. 

Instead he would get younger, he thought, and lose John all together. He buried himself in John's shoulder and breathed deeply, willing himself not to dwell on it.


	14. Slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And time moves on, if not forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Jess, for helping me through writing this chapter and all the emotions that came with it. This story effects me just as it does you.

A little while later Sherlock pulled John up from the couch and walked him to the bedroom. They were both exhausted from the long day, and slipped out of their clothes and under the covers. Sherlock thought he should probably have sex with John again, seeing as he was starting to drift off and knew that when he fell asleep it would be over. It felt like wasting something perfectly good to NOT have sex. 

On the other hand, John had wrapped himself around Sherlock perfectly and was breathing deeply, thick with sleep and growing thicker. Sex suddenly didn't mean anything. It was the closeness he really craved, the ability to hold John for as long as he want as he fell asleep. The way John felt calm and safe enough to drift off against his chest. The warmth. The overwhelming warmth. 

\-----

His eyes focused and the blacklight in his hand made the wish shine bright. "Help us", the linseed oil proclaimed. The sounds of the others in the room made his stomach turn. He knew exactly where he was. He let the light drop to the boys' bed and walked from the room. He heard John jogging after him. 

Lestrade was yelling his name but he wouldn't stop, couldn't. He burst through the back door and breathed the outside air deep into his lungs. His heart was racing and he felt dizzy as he leaned over and emptied his stomach all over the dying grass. John was at his side, whispering something and rubbing his back. He wretched again and then once more, coughing roughly when his stomach had nothing more to give. 

John handed him a small piece of cloth to clean his mouth and stepped away. He heard Lestrade's footsteps approach and then stop as John met him. They stood talking a few steps away and, though Sherlock could make out what they were saying, he ignored them. 

He rubbed the handkerchief across his lips and closed his eyes, still remembering exactly how John's lips felt the night before. Not the night before. Several weeks later. Bloody hell. And there it was again, nausea pushing him to bend over and attempt to rid himself physically of the memory. It made sense, he thought absently, as the memory WAS a poison, and one that he feared would kill him in the end. The end, or the beginning. 

It was all the same now, tomorrow and yesterday. What was he to do when every tomorrow led to a yesterday he'd already lived? He'd got what he'd always wanted, the only thing that would keep him going, and had it wrenched from his fists. John. John was his, and it was sweet, and now he was as good as a stranger, standing across the field and telling Lestrade to give him space. 

Perhaps if he were someone else he would take comfort in the fact that he knew this John loved him. Perhaps another person would see this as an opportunity, a chance to make John fall in love with him all over again. But for what? To lose him in seventy-two hours at most? His thoughts darted back to when this had all first transpired. He'd wondered then if he was in hell, living out the days before the wedding over again. He knew now that he was. This was surely hell. 

John watched him shake and curse, a long line of saliva dripping to the cold ground. He had no idea what had brought this on. He knew he'd been in more frightening situations before, he'd been to war after all, but none came to mind. 

"I have no idea what's going on." He admitted. 

Greg looked around and dug his hands into his pockets. "Is it possible he had a relapse?" 

John shook his head. "No. No way. We've been together the whole week and he's been perfectly normal." 

"Do you think he could get through the rest of the case?" Greg asked, looking guilty for his near begging. "Missing kids and all." 

John breathed deeply and clenched his fists. "I'll see." 

He strode back to where Sherlock was, still bent over the grass, and put a hand on his back. Sherlock looked up at him with pain in his eyes. 

"Sherlock. Are you well enough to finish the case? It's just that there are the kids, and-" John asked nervously. 

Sherlock wiped at his mouth again, refolded the handkerchief and walked back into the scene. He didn't know what to do besides solve it. John wanted that and he wanted to make John happy, God help him. 

\-----

This time around he avoided the children and didn't say how clever he thought it was that the candy they consumed was killing them. He lied about a childhood allergy to linseed oil and John got him home and insisted he take an oatmeal bath. He misconstrued the agitated scratching of his arms as more proof of the allergy. 

John drew the bath and walked Sherlock into the loo. Sherlock was so despondent that he couldn't be brought to take his own coat off. Instead, he stood facing John with a look of such malaise that John undressed him most of the way without complaint. When he was down to his pants John left the room. 

Sherlock slipped off them and climbed into the bath, sinking in so the water caressed his chin. The steam surrounded him as he watched the shadows of John's feet below the door. The good doctor didn't want to leave his side. 

"I'll be out here...if you need me." John said after a few long moments. 

"I need you." Sherlock replied. 

The door handle turned and the door opened a crack. 

"What can I get you? Do you want some water? Tea?" John asked eagerly. 

"No. I just..." Sherlock began. 

John remained quiet on the other side of the door, waiting for an answer. 

"Can you sit with me?" Sherlock asked at last. 

John didn't move, one hand resting on the handle while the other clutched his face. "Sherlock, you're-" 

"I'm naked, yes! And you're my bloody doctor, so if you could put aside the fact that you're uncomfortable with whatever is going on with your sexuality and act like a bloody professional for once I would really appreciate it!" Sherlock shouted, shaking with a mix of anger and fear. 

The door opened and John walked through, eyeing the floor and going to sit on the toilet lid. His hands were shaking as much as Sherlock's, and his jaw flexed intermittently. 

"You're right. I'm sorry." He said quietly.

When he didn't get a response he glanced up to find Sherlock's eyes wide and full of tears. He cursed and moved to his knees so he could be closer. 

"Ah, Christ, Sherlock. Tell me what's wrong." He begged, suddenly not bothered by Sherlock's nakedness at all. 

"I-I can't do it anymore. It's too much. I. I." Sherlock tried, tears falling down his cheeks. 

John stared horrified as Sherlock brought a trembling hand to his mouth and bit his fingers then ran it into his hair and pulled hard. He twisted onto his side and a rush of water swept over the edge of the tub and onto the tile floor. John jumped up as it soaked into his thigh and cursed. For a second Sherlock thought he was going to yell at him and leave. He might have if put in the same situation. Okay, that wasn't true anymore. 

Instead of leaving John pulled off his shirt and jumper, tossed his shoes aside, removed his trousers and climbed into he bath clad in his socks and pants. He knelt in front of Sherlock for a second before pulling him up against his chest and running a hand into his damp curls. Sherlock choked out a sob and closed his eyes as John started to murmur to him.   
"It's okay. I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere. You're safe now. You're just fine." John soothed, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair and kissing his temple. 

"It won't be okay! It's all wrong!" Sherlock sobbed. 

"Relax." John insisted. "Just breathe with me, yeah?" 

Sherlock sobbed harder and John pulled gently on his hair. His breath caught in his throat at that and John drew back. 

"You're going to breathe with me, understand?" John said firmly. 

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide, and John breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. More tears rolled down Sherlock's cheeks as he struggled to get his breathing under control, his entire being focused on John's breaths. 

After a while John let go of his back and brushed a thumb across his cheek. 

"We need to get out, the water's getting cold." He said softly. 

Sherlock nodded and John stood carefully, removing his dripping socks and pants and drying himself off. He slipped on one of Sherlock's robes and turned back to the tub. 

"Come on." He said, holding up a towel. "Out with you." 

Sherlock stood slowly, torn between letting John comfort him and telling him the comfort would never be enough. John wrapped the towel around his back and dried him while he stepped out onto the soaked bath mat. Sherlock let him dry his hair last and walk him to bed. 

"Do you want pajamas?" John asked softly. 

Sherlock shook his head and slipped under the thick duvet. John stood by the edge of the bed for a second before slipping in with him and holding him close to his chest. Sherlock started to cry again, hot tears spilling slowly now. 

"It's okay." John whispered, strong arm pulling Sherlock close. 

'It's really not', Sherlock thought. 

"Why don't you go to sleep? I'll stay here." John said. 

Sherlock snorted at the thought, the two sentences making his head spin. Got to sleep. I'll stay here. Right. 

Soon enough though, John was breathing evenly on his neck and running his fingers through his hair and being so very kind, and he felt himself slipping.


	15. Oh

Sherlock woke slowly, eyes remaining closed. This was the first time he'd come back asleep. He stretched and got out of bed, surprised to find himself naked. He often slept naked in the summer, but here it was still winter and the cool air pricked at his skin. With nothing to go on to tell him how far back he'd gone he went to his dresser and took out a pair of pajama trousers and a t-shirt. 

"Oh." John said, throwing the door open and quickly looking away from a still nude Sherlock. 

Sherlock slipped on the trousers and turned to try to glean any information he could from John. The doctor was wearing his robe, not normal, and looking sleep ruffled. He held a cup out to Sherlock and smiled gently. 

"Are you feeling any better?" He asked, nervousness showing in his stance and breathing. 

Sherlock took the cup and sipped the hot liquid. He didn't respond, still feeling bogged down by the reality of his existence. John ran a hand through his hair and looked around the room. 

"Well, Lestrade will be wanting to talk to us about the kidnapping later. He seemed a bit agitated on the phone, but the children are safe and that's what matters." John said. 

"The children?" Sherlock asked, his stomach clinching at the implications of what John had just said. 

John looked truly concerned and held the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. 

"Yes, of course. The children from the case today. Do you not remember?" He asked. 

"I was asleep." Sherlock said softly. 

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't usually cause memory loss." John said. "Maybe you should sit down." 

Sherlock did, not because of John's suggestion, but rather because he could no longer stand. John sat at his side, took the cup from his shaking hands and set it next to the bed. He rested his hand on Sherlock's thigh and squeezed it softly. 

"Look, I'm rather worried about you. You've had a really rough day, and I think you still might need some sleep. How about you lay down and I'll bring you something to eat? Case's closed." John whispered.

Sherlock turned suddenly and wrapped his arms around John. The older man brought his arms up to hold his friend and breathed a deep sigh before speaking. 

"Sherlock. There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about. I've been feeling this way for a long time, and I didn't know what to say." John said, gently stroking the back of Sherlock's neck. 

There was a loud knock at the front door and John sat back sharply. The knock came again and he rubbed his temple. Sherlock felt his stomach drop, knowing what was coming next. He held tightly onto John's hand. 

"I should get that. We'll talk later." John said, standing and walking to the door. 

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "They want to take me in. They think I kidnapped the children." 

John snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, you kidnapped a couple of children. Right." 

Sherlock looked at him with uwavering intensity and John's face dropped. The knock came again, louder this time. John stalked out to the sitting room with Sherlock at his heels. He swung the door open and glared at Lestrade. 

"What?" He demanded. 

"I'm here for Sherlock. We have some questions and-" Lestrade began. 

"You've got to be bloody kidding me! Greg, if you let this happen I swear to god I'll never forgive you! Get those two halfwits to shut the hell up or I'll sue the whole bloody force for harassment!" John screamed. 

"John, there's nothing-" Lestrade began again. 

"You're their superior, not their lap dog! Figure this the fuck out, you bloody coward!" John seethed. 

He was shaking now, squeezing his hands into tight fists and breathing roughly through his nose. Sherlock watched as Lestrade tried to speak again and John grabbed his tie. 

"I've put up with their constant complaints and insults for two years and you've done nothing but give them a slap on the wrist! Do you really think Sherlock fucking kidnapped a couple kids? Are you fucking joking?" John hissed. 

Lestrade reached to his hip and cuffed John so quickly Sherlock didn't see it coming. 

"You just assaulted a police officer! I didn't want it to come to this, but you two are out of control!" Lestrade squeaked as he turned John around and secured him. 

Sherlock shot forward and Lestrade pushed him back. 

It happened like slow motion. Sherlock knew it had to do with the chemicals in the brain, but it still felt rather cinematic. He fell backwards and his head hit the edge of the door. 

\-----

"I could open any door, anywhere, with a few lines of computer code." Moriarty drawled. 

Sherlock launched forward and gripped at his neck, nails digging in as the Irishman tried to get away. The teacup and saucer fell to the floor and smashed quite dramatically, sending slivers of china across the carpet. Moriarty pulled at Sherlock's wrists with weakening hands. 

Sherlock found himself yelling and shaking him as his windpipe was quickly crushed. He shook and shook until Moriarty's head started to bob gently and spittle was running down his chin and his voice was hoarse.

He jumped back and looked on in horror as Moriarty's body folded onto itself and lay still. 

The door opened and Mrs Hudson walked in with a shout. 

"What on earth is going on-" She began. 

Sherlock turned with tears in his eyes and she looked to where he'd been staring. 

"Oh." She whispered. 

Sherlock fell to his knees and she moved forward to cradle his head against her. She ran her fingers through his hair and spoke softly. 

"Sherlock, dear, don't worry. We'll get this mess figured out right away. You've done nothing wrong, the man was a monster. Don't think I haven't found out about what he did to John." She cooed. "We'll get him downstairs and stick him in that old tub. I'm sure you know what to do from there."


	16. Shh. I Know.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home to find out Moriarty is dead and Sherlock is the cause. 
> 
> Also, porn because these two aren't well adjusted.

By the time John got home Sherlock was on Mrs Hudson's couch with a blanket around him, his knees pulled up to his chin and clutched there. Her front door was open and John could hear her talking so he walked in to see who was there. Sherlock had a distant look on his face, not the usual one, and John knew right away something was off. Two men in dirty clothes sat having tea with Mrs H as she giggled and passed them biscuits. John cleared his throat and the four of them looked up at him. 

"Mrs H. How are things this evening?" He asked. 

She looked sad for a moment to before patting one of the men's hands and pulling herself together. 

"Well, boys," she said cheerfully to the two men. "I think we've got everything under control. Remember what I said about boxing day." 

"Yes, ma'am." The one said. 

"We will ma'am." The other chirped. 

They got from their seats and nodded at John as they left. Sherlock was still looking up at John, bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth. John had a sinking feeling as he sat across from Mrs Hudson at the small table. 

"Would you like a cuppa?" She asked, obviously stalling. 

"I'd like to know what's going on." John replied shortly. 

Mrs Hudson looked cross at him for a moment before speaking. "There was an accident." 

"It wasn't an accident!" Sherlock shouted. 

Mrs Hudson flapped her hand dismissively at Sherlock and started again. 

"There was an incident. That horrible young man James showed up and Sherlock got a bit agitated and strangled him to death. If you ask me, the young man got off easy. I would have liked to see him suffer a bit, those black eyes of his." She said, wrinkling her nose. 

John scrubbed a hand across his face and stood so quickly that the chair clattered to the ground. Mrs Hudson got up and pulled John from the room by his elbow. She closed the door and set about telling him off. 

"You need to think of someone else than yourself right now, John Watson! Your friend, your dearest friend, is in there nearly catatonic with grief over killing a man that threatened your life. Pull yourself together and go comfort him. He's not like you, he hasn't killed anyone before, he doesn't have any way of understanding it. Go in there and fix this." She said sternly. 

John opened his mouth to ask where the body was but she tutted him and spun him around by the shoulders. John shut his mouth and walked out to the drawing room where Sherlock had sunk back into the couch and covered himself completely with the blanket. He knelt next to the couch and put his hand on what he thought must be Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Sherlock. I think...I think we should go upstairs and put you to bed." He said gently. 

Sherlock's body quaked beneath the sheet. John drew the edge back to find Sherlock's face scrunched up pitifully. 

"Come on, love." He said, not worried over the gentle pet name. "Up you go." 

Sherlock let himself be pushed into an upright position and walked out the front door. Mrs Hudson gave them a little wave and they moved up the stairs. The flat looked as it normally did after Mrs Hudson cleaned, nothing around pointing to some kind of struggle. John tried to turn Sherlock towards his bedroom but the man stood stiff in the entryway. 

"He sat in my chair." He whispered. 

John let his hands sag to his side and sighed painfully. 

"I can fix that." He said, going and sitting there himself. 

He stretched his body out so he was covering most of the seat and Sherlock looked a bit more relaxed. 

"I was sitting there." He said, pointing to John's chair weakly. 

"Why don't you sit on the sofa. I have a feeling neither of us will be able to sleep tonight." John said, getting up from the chair and walking to the kitchen. "Only one thing for it, dealing with killing a man." 

"What's that?" Sherlock asked as he sat on the sofa and watched John go through the cabinets. 

His eyes were wide and he looked for all the world like a confused little boy. John pulled out two glasses and a large bottle of whiskey then turned around and walked back to sit with Sherlock. 

"A little old world remedy." John said. 

"You're British. There is no old world." Sherplock said with a small smile. 

"Yeah, well, I learned a thing or two around campfires and in bunkers. Here." John said, pouring a large amount of the amber liquid in one of the glasses and passing it over. 

Sherlock took it and sipped slowly. He rolled the glass back and forth in his hands and watched as John poured his own and sat back to take a large swig. 

"What would Ella think?" Sherlock asked, taking another drink and eyeing the glass. 

"Ella's never killed a man. She never held someone's life in her hands and had to make a decision. She's not qualified to make a judgement." John said a bit more angrily than he meant to. 

Sherlock smiled sadly and sat back. "That was always the problem, wasn't it?" 

John took another drink and nodded. "Should have found someone else. Someone who'd been through it. Guess I didn't really want to get better." 

"John Watson, professional martyr." Sherlock said softly. 

John shrugged and drank down the rest of his glass before pouring another. "Everyone's looking for something. I don't see why it's so bad to want a cause to die for." 

Sherlock tossed his drink back and passed his glass over for a re-up. John filled it and handed it back, their fingers brushing together on the smooth surface. 

"I think I've found mine." Sherlock said. 

"Yeah? And what's that then?" John asked, settling back into his seat with a newly full cup. 

Sherlock looked up at him and John had to swallow hard. He was doing that thing again where he stared right into your soul. The look that made you feel weak and desperately alive at the same time. The one that took John's breath away. 

"You." Sherlock said honestly. 

John choked on his drink and set it down. 

"Sherlock, that's-" He began. 

"I'm sorry you find my honesty unnerving. It is, however, the truth. I've spent my while life doing things for the combined purposes of learning something new and proving I was right, and it's left me rather lacking. It's come to my attention over the last few years that you are the only thing I've ever endeavored to keep safe, including myself. I apologize for putting you in the way of Moriarty and I'd gladly kill him again for you. You are my only friend and my sole moral compass. You make me strive to not disappoint you and that, that John Watson, is quite terrifying." Sherlock said before taking another long sip and sitting back, hands shaking. 

John stared at Sherlock for a long time before he spoke. Sherlock could practically hear the cogs turning in his head. 

"I'm not straight." He said at last. 

Sherlock looked up with a wrinkled brow and John cleared his throat. 

"I knew I said I wasn't gay, but that's not the whole truth. I'm not gay, but I'm not straight. Every once in a while there's a man that...a man that catches my eye." John added. 

Sherlock waited for him to say something more but he simply leaned back and took another sip of his drink. 

"Is this the kind of thing you talk about around the campfire?" He asked. 

John drank the rest of his whiskey and poured more in the glass. 

"Yes and no. I've never told anyone I'm not straight. The usual campfire rhetoric involves talking about attraction, but never honestly. Not for any of us I think. Even when we would talk about women we fancied it was always with a sort of false bravado." John said, licking his lip and watching Sherlock down the rest of his drink. 

"You're getting drunk." Sherlock said as he poured himself another drink.  
"I'm not the only one." John replied. 

Sherlock sat back and watched John for a while as he sipped away and felt that alcohol start to take ahold of himself in earnest. 

"I am gay." Sherlock said finally. "I often find myself attracted to men, but don't act on it. Every once in a while I'd go to a pub and have my way with a stranger. Easier than trying to form a relationship." 

John nodded and unconsciously ran his hand up and down his thigh. "So you're not interested in a relationship, then." 

"Not with anyone but you." Sherlock murmured. 

"What?" John asked, almost dropping his drink. 

"You heard me." Sherlock purred. "No one has managed to hold my interest but you. And you do, hold it. You have my rapt attention. Singularly." 

"Singularly?" John asked, voice pitched a bit higher than normal. 

Sherlock turned his head and nodded, eyes fixed on John's. John set down his drink and rested his hand on Sherlock's knee. 

"What happened to married to your work?" He asked, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock set his glass down as well and pulled John's chin up so he had to look. 

"You happened." He said, leaning in and brushing his lips across John's. 

John sighed and closed his eyes and let Sherlock take the tip of his tongue between his lips when it darted out to wet his. Sherlock reached a hand around to grip the back of John's neck and John gasped and pressed their lips all the way together. Sherlock tilted his head and ran his tongue across John's and deep into his mouth. John groaned and acquiesced when Sherlock pulled on his hips, goading him into straddling his lap. 

Sherlock let go of the back of his neck and gripped John's hips as he sucked on John's tongue and hummed. John slowly broke away and began kissing up Sherlock's neck. 

"Isn't this a bit...a bit not good?" Sherlock asked. "There was a man just killed." 

John nipped at his neck and then laved it with his tongue. 

"Last time a man was killed by one of us we spent the night laughing over Chinese. If you hadn't have been married to the work back then I would have had you over the kitchen table by the time we got home." John said, fingers working on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. 

Sherlock moaned as John's fingers slipped across his chest. 

"Oh!" He exclaimed as John pinched a nipple and bit down softly on his neck. 

"I've been waiting to bed you since the day we met." John added. 

"How do you want me?" Sherlock asked, arousal pumping through his veins as readily as the alcohol now. 

"I want to ride you. Right here. Hard. I'm not fragile, I can take a little punishment." John growled in Sherlock's ear. 

"Okay." Sherlock said pitifully. 

"I'm gonna go get a condom. Stay where you are." John said as he kissed Sherlock's lips before standing and walking up to his room. 

Sherlock undid his trousers and pushed them off, then slipped his shirt from his shoulders and rested back against the sofa in just his pants. John appeared at the bottom of the stairs in nothing but his pants as well and went to lock the front door. He walked back to the sofa with a condom and bottle of lube in his hand, front of his pants distorted by his thick erection. 

Sherlock shivered as John pulled down his pants and left them on the floor. He lifted his hips when John went to remove his and blushed as his cock sprang forth desperately. John set the condom aside and straddled him, kissing softly and spreading lube onto his fingers. Sherlock felt the little 'oh' against his mouth as John slipped a finger inside himself. 

He reached up and gave John's cock a soft pull and John thrust his hips and moaned. He did it again and John began pumping the finger in and out of himself. His eyes were closed and his hips were moving and Sherlock continued the gentle pulls and leaned forward to lick his chest and then around the large bullet wound on his shoulder. 

"It's still...It's still a little sensitive." John choked out. 

Sherlock kissed it softly and bit into John's bicep. John grunted and moved his hips, pumping two and now three fingers in and out of his arsehole. Sherlock gave his cock another languid stroke and John whimpered and pulled his fingers out. 

"I need...I need you now." He panted. 

Sherlock grabbed for the condom and opened the foil packet, slipping it over his cock and taking the lube from John's hand. He breathed deeply and spread a good amount on his prick, then pushed forward on the sofa and let his legs fall further apart. 

John looked down on him with undisguised lust and raised himself up on his knees so he could hover over the head of Sherlock's prick. 

"Okay?" He asked. 

Sherlock nodded and bit down painfully on his own lip as John sank slowly down onto him. 

"Fuck! Oh, fuck! Give me a second!" John cursed, shaking and gripping Sherlock's shoulders tightly. 

"Yeah. Christ." Sherlock murmured, taking John's clean hand and sticking two of the fingers between his lips. 

John was surprised by the sudden suction on them and rolled his hips without meaning to. 

"God, so full!" He cursed. 

Sherlock hummed around his fingers and sucked harder. John raised himself up and then sank back down again, moaning and closing his eyes. Sherlock ran his tongue between John's fingers and gripped John's arse. 

"Jesus, that's good! Oh, hell!" John exclaimed. 

Sherlock ran a hand up the back of John's neck and pulled him down. John's eyes shot open and he started to move slowly as he watched Sherlock's lips wrapped around his fingers. He pulled his hand out of Sherlock's mouth and kissed him roughly as he set up a rhythm. Sherlock pushed his hips up slightly and John broke away with a grunt. 

"Oh, yeah! That's it! Fuck up into me while I ride your prick!" John demanded. 

"Are you always this pushy?" Sherlock asked breathlessly as he did what he was told. 

John grinned stupidly and pushed down to meet the thrust. "No. You're usually the pushy one." 

Sherlock let out a low growl as he bottomed out and John chuckled lightly. 

"Harder." John said, leaning in once again and kissing Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock thrust up into him and John started moving faster. His arsehole was so tight around Sherlock that he was worried his cock might slip out and not fit back in. It was ridiculous, but so was sex with John Watson. 

"Jesus, Sherlock. Take off the bloody training wheels and fuck me like you mean it!" John growled as he pulled Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock snarled and gripped John's hips. He started to pump up into him brutally, chasing his orgasm as his breaths grew more ragged. John was keening and bucking in his lap and Sherlock felt his body tighten and reached out to grasp his cock. 

John shouted and started to come, shooting ribbons of thick fluid all over Sherlock's chest and stomach. John's arsehole clenched around him and he whimpered as his hips stuttered and he pulled John down to spill as deep inside him as he could. He continued to stroke John's shaft until John stilled his hand and collapsed against his chest. 

Sherlock held John tightly as they tried to recover. Sherlock felt himself coming undone as John's rough breaths came against his neck. John, who wasn't an idiot, felt the change, and knew what to expect next. He kissed his neck softly. 

"I didn't mean to kill him." Sherlock said, voice suddenly wavering. 

"Shh. I know." John replied. 

Sherlock's chest heaved and John felt wetness on his shoulder while Sherlock mouthed at his skin. 

"It's okay. He was a very bad man, yeah?" John asked. 

"He was going to hurt you, he wanted me dead. And he sat there and he fucking smirked at me and I just lost it!" Sherlock said, sobbing now against John's shoulder. 

"You're safe now. He can't get you. He can't hurt you anymore." John whispered. 

Sherlock cried harder because he knew it wasn't true.


	17. Can I Have Him?

John slowly pulled off, taking Sherlock's face in his hands and kissing his lips. He got up and gently pulled the condom from Sherlock's soft penis, breathing deeply once before turning away. 

"Do you want a shower?" He asked. 

Sherlock swallowed hard and got up from his place on the couch, face still stained with tears. He really couldn't talk right then, couldn't form sentences because he knew what was coming next. The world was being so cruel to him that it couldn't be anything different. 

He walked past John, who was standing in the kitchen, and on to the loo. John sighed and mentally kicked himself. Maybe it wasn't a good idea after all. Maybe he'd broken Sherlock even more. Maybe he'd really fucked it up this time. 

"Do you want me to...join you?" He asked loudly. 

Sherlock slammed the door. 

The water started out cold and Sherlock didn't wait for it to get warm before grabbing the thing he needed and stepping under the spray. His body shook, whether from the cold or the grief he didn't know, as he sat down in the tub and let the shower spray cover him. It was soon too hot, but he didn't care. 

It was like when you're scared of something, so you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going. He knew where he'd be when he woke up and he couldn't just crawl into bed and await it. He took the straight razor and drew it up his wrist, hand shaking but determined. The second wrist was harder, but he got it done. 

That's what Sherlock does, after all, he gets things done. It's his modus aparendi, it's what he does best. Solve the case at hand and move on to the next. So as he lay there quietly bleeding out he thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to do this enough to stop time. Maybe fate would let him die. Maybe the universe would be less cruel. 

His legs covered with blood and the shower spray sluiced off the drying come on his chest. Life and death, mingling together on porcelain. 

\-----

"Thanks." John said, lifting the cup to his lips. 

It only took a second for Sherlock to slap it out of his hands. It proved to him that he was getting worse. He wasn't remembering things correctly. He watched the cup crash to the floor and break into small bits as John hollered at him. 

The coffee spread across the floor and he felt a bit nauseous. Ridiculous. Ridiculous to stop John from drinking the coffee, the coffee he knew wasn't dosed with anything. What he knew and what he felt seemed to be bleeding together in his fevered brain. His only instinct now, it seemed, was to protect John. From real or imagined threats apparently. 

"Sherlock. Christ. Sherlock!" John hollered, looking into Sherlock's eyes and feeling his forehead. 

Sherlock shook himself and cleared his throat. "Sorry. Sorry. Must be the effects of the hallucinogenics. I'm a bit on edge, that's all." 

"Hallucinogenics?" Lestrade asked, moving forward and staring slack jawed. 

John looked worried. 

"Of course. You don't know. Not yet at least. I keep getting time mixed up." Sherlock said. 

This only added to John's distress as he shifted from foot to foot. 

"We're being dosed. There are pressure plates in the ground where people have seen the massive dog. An aerosol that contains a drug known to cause hallucinations and immense fear." Sherlock explained. 

"Seriously? Christ." John said. 

Greg sat down at the bar and took out his mobile. 

Sherlock walked past the surprised men behind the bar and up to his room. He sat on the bed and held his head in his hands. Ere was a knock at the door. 

"Come in." He said, exhaustion taking over. 

John walked in and sat on the bed next to him. 

"What's wrong? Is it the drug? You're never this agitated after solving a case." He said, worry bleeding into his words. 

"The coffee." He whispered. 

"Look, they don't care about one broken coffee mug."

"No, John, not the mug, the coffee. I was about to dose you with what I thought was the drug." Sherlock explained. 

John took a deep breath and stood, chuckling angrily. "What the fuck?" 

Sherlock looked up with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done to hurt you. I'm sorry for the things I'm going to do. I'm just, I'm just sorry." 

Sherlock stood and reached around John. The shorter man thought he was going in for a hug and awkwardly wrapped his arms around his back as Sherlock reached into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out the gun. When Sherlock pulled away John's eyes were wide with fear.   
Sherlock turned off the safety and pushed the barrel between his lips. The last thing he heard was John screaming his name. 

\-----

"Brainy is the new sexy." Miss Adler purred. 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and pulled roughly. Both John and the woman looked on confused. 

"You can have the mobile. I don't care." He spit. "John, we should go." 

John followed Sherlock out the door and the woman cursed and stood to retrieve the mobile from her vault. She typed out a message and sent it. 

HE DOESN'T WANT TO PLAY ALONG. WHAT SHOULD I DO? 

A response came seconds later. 

WE'LL HAVE TO FORCE HIS HAND. M

She sat back on the sofa with a sigh and turned the mobile off. 

\-----

Out on the kerb John stopped Sherlock with a hand to his arm. 

"What was that about?" He asked. 

"I know when I'm beat. I can't get everything right. You should know, you're the one that loves to tell your readers how human I am. Humanity is flawed. Let's go." Sherlock hissed. 

John followed, clenching and unclenching his hands. Sherlock was in such a good mood, then everything got ruined. He really didn't have to take out his anger on John. Ridiculous man. 

The ridiculous man was able to hail a cab out of nowhere again and John slid in next to him. They were apparently headed home. Just as the cab turned the corner John saw several suspicious men storming into the house they'd just left. 

The cab ride was silent but John could feel the tension growing. He wanted to say something but didn't know what he should. He was stuck deciding whether to scold Sherlock for being a dick or ask him what was wrong when the cab pulled up to 221.

He paid the cabbie and followed Sherlock up to the front door. Sherlock stopped short and ran his finger along the edge of the frame. 

"What's wrong?" He asked. 

"Someone's broken in." He said before opening the door and storming into the foyer. 

Mrs Hudson's door was open and there were signs of struggle everywhere; chairs turned over, the table upended, a broken vase. And then John saw what Sherlock was staring at. There was a large note scrawled in red on the wall. 

'Come and play. M'

Sherlock screeched, actually screeched and spun around. His eyes were wild and John actually had to take a step back, anger pouring off of Sherlock frighteningly. 

"Clues! He's left us clues! We have to find them!" Sherlock shouted as he fell to his knees and began searching the floor. 

It was John that saw it first. A bright yellow reflective jacket lay on the kitchen table. John didn't know what it meant. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock, there's something here." He said. 

Sherlock stood and all but ran to his side, stopping in his tracks and growling low in the back of his throat. He picked up the jacket and turned out the pockets then dragged John out the door by his arm and hailed them a cab. 

Sherlock explained when he'd last seen a jacket like that as they sped away towards the museum. "It's the same one I wore when infiltrating the building. This has to do with the location of the Vermeer." 

They pulled up outside the steps of the museum and John paid the cabbie and ran after Sherlock. The front doors were locked so they went around back. The doors there were open and they walked into an eerily silent room. All the lights had been turned off but there was sound coming from a bit away. 

Sherlock motioned for John to stay behind him and walked down the corridor in the direction of the voices. They moved along the wall silently, looking this way and that for telltale sniper dots. When they made it to the large open area where the sounds were coming from Sherlock slipped around the corner and stood firmly before the scene. 

"Oh, look who's here." Moriarty drawled. "We really do have to stop meeting like this, love." 

John listened intently as the two men spoke. What he couldn't see was Mrs Hudson strapped to a chair with a ball of material stuffed in her mouth. She breathed raggedly through her nose as tears streamed down her face. 

"I'll stop meeting you this way when you stop kidnapping my friends. It is quite dull. Thought you'd be up for something a bit different this next time." Sherlock purred. 

Mrs H whimpered and looked down. 

"Johnny boy, you can come out now. I know you're there." Moriarty said in his signature sing-song voice. 

John sighed and walked around the corner, forced to by a man behind him holding a gun to his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically when he saw John being held captive. He felt sick to his stomach, but hid it well. 

"I loved how you and your pet were getting along. Thought I'd get a live-in as well. This is Seb. Sebby, this is Sherlock and John, remember I told you about them?" Moriarty said cheerfully. 

"Yeah, boss. I like the little one." Sebastian said as he slipped an arm around John's neck. "Can I have him?" 

John jerked and spit at the ground as Sebastian tightened the grip on his throat and kissed the side of his face. Sherlock felt paralyzed. 

"How about we make a trade? Hmm? The old lady for the doctor. I think it's fair? How about you, Sherly?" Moriarty sang.


	18. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's gonna hurt.

He felt dizzy, the ground was apparently trying to eat him up. He looked back and forth between John and Mrs Hudson and for once in his life had no idea what he should do. This shattered something deep inside him. Even when he didn't want to confront a situation he always knew at least three outcomes. He couldn't decide. He didn't know what was next. 

He pulled the gun from his waistband and quickly held it against Moriarty's head. Moriarty giggled, the bastard actually giggled, and nodded at his assassin. Sherlock realised he'd done the wrong thing seconds before the gun went off. John's head was still in one piece, but there was a hole about the size of a quarter in it now. His body slumped to the ground. 

Mrs Hudson started sobbing and Sherlock dropped the gun. He felt like he was still standing but he knew that he was on his knees crawling towards John's crumpled body. Mrs Hudson shook and screamed behind him and Moriarty teased him, but the only thing he could manage to do was crawl towards John. 

Time shifted then, not as it did when he went back but as it does when you're going through trauma. The shift was wholly inside Sherlock's brain, no part of it actually slowing down the rest of the world. He saw Moriarty leave and his assassin, what's his name, follow after. He could see the lights of a police car blinking in through a window, but couldn't hear a siren. 

He was being picked up from the floor after someone strapped him into a stretcher and Mrs Hudson was free and sobbing against Lestrade's chest. He could hear his name being repeated (as if through a large storm drain) as someone shone a light in his eyes. 

He looked back down at John one more time and thought absently that they shouldn't cover John's whole body with the black sheet. They should leave it off his face so he could breathe. He should tell them not to cover his face. John wouldn't like that. 

\-----

A needle pricked his arm as he felt himself screaming and thrashing about. There was one side of him that was frantic and another that watched his body acting out and wondered what it was so upset over. 

\-----

"What kind of sedative did you give him?" Mycroft said loudly from the hall. 

Sherlock looked out at him and wondered why he was here. 

"Well of course that didn't work! He's built up quite a tolerance from his years of COCAINE AND HERION ABUSE!" Mycroft was shouting now and pointing his umbrella menacingly at someone just out of view. 

Sherlock found himself screaming again. John, John, John. Over and over again, nonstop noise from his brain that somehow spilled out of his mouth in great gusts. He felt like he'd been gargling with charcoal briquettes, his throat raw and painful. 

Another needle prick and his body slumped. He couldn't move. Brain slowed. Words. Lights. John. John. John. John. 

\----

Mycroft watched as his brother became near catatonic. The nurse dragged a light back and forth before his eyes and he followed it with them, but there was a great delay. By the time the light was over his right eye he'd just gotten to looking in the opposite direction. 

\-----

John. John. John. John. 

\-----

A day and a half later things seemed to go from moving like molasses to moving like honey. As the day went on Sherlock began to be able to move his fingers and toes. When evening was just coming he coughed and Mycroft looked over at him. 

"Here." His brother said, holding a straw to his lips and waiting while he drank. "You had a reaction to the second sedative. You've been out for almost two days. Don't try to talk, just nod for yes and shake for no." 

Sherlock tried to roll his eyes. He almost made it and Mycroft obviously took that as a good sign. 

"Sherlock. There's a doctor here that wants to talk to you." Mycroft said calmly. 

A man in a white jacket that didn't quite fit him came in with a false smile and sat down by Sherlock's side. The smile made Sherlock angry for some reason. He wondered if the man even knew that the smile he was wearing was false. 

"Hello, Sherlock. I'm doctor Spencer. I'm going to ask you a few questions." The man said cheerfully. "Do you know why you're here?" 

Sherlock shook his head. No. It was almost within reach, but it seemed that every time he tried to retrieve the memory it slipped between his fingers. 

"Alright. That's okay. I'm afraid you're going to need to stay here for a while so you can recover. I'll be in once a day to check on your progress. Here's a notepad and pen. Do you have any questions?"

Sherlock scrawled sloppily, even for him, and held the notepad up. 

WHERE IS JOHN? 

The falsely cheery man's face sagged for a moment before slipping back into bizarre congeniality. "I'm afraid John isn't here." 

RIDICULOUS. JOHN IS ALWAYS BY MY SIDE. TELL HIM I NEED TO SPEAK WITH HIM. 

Once again the man's face faltered. Sherlock thought absently that they should teach psychiatrists not to do that in school. It really undermined the whole 'providing comfort' thing. 

"John can't come, Sherlock." He said. 

Sherlock tried to sit up and fell back down. His body wasn't behaving. He HATED it when his body refused to behave. When he was a young boy he'd got his arm trapped in a door and couldn't use it for two weeks. Once when he was in gym class he'd been forced to climb a long rope and got an erection. When he was in secondary school he got laryngitis and couldn't speak for a week. When-

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" The doctor was saying. 

Sherlock nodded weakly and put pen back to paper. 

WHY CAN'T JOHN COME? IS HE INJURED? 

"No. Sherlock, I'm sorry to have to tell you this but, John's dead." 

He felt his body start to move without permission again and heard a strange sound. A kind of squeal. The sound cars make when going around corners too quickly. It took a moment for him to realise the sound was coming from his own mouth. 

A nurse rushed in. Another needle prick. Another distant night. John.


	19. In Every Lifetime I've Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, your promised happy ending.

"You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left."  John said as he went to the kitchen to retrieve Sherlock's bank card. 

Sherlock blinked twice. Then twice again. Then once more for good measure. John had just turned around when he stood. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright? You look a bit-"

Sherlock felt his knees give out as he fell to the floor. 

\-----

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked from the entryway. 

Sherlock stood looking at him, but not seeing, for a moment. When he snapped out of it he looked Lestrade in the eyes and shook his head. 

"No." He said sternly. 

"What do you mean, no? You've been hounding me about this case for-" Greg began. 

"I'm busy. You can figure it out without me." Sherlock hissed. 

John looked uncomfortably back and forth between the two. 

"Fine. You know what? Next time you want a case you can bugger off!" Lestrade yelled as he left. 

John looked up at Sherlock for a second with a question on the tip of his tongue. Mrs Hudson had surprise written all over her face. Sherlock really didn't care. He was bloody sick of being jerked around. If the universe was going to keep ruining his life he was just going to get high. 

He walked into his bedroom and closed the door. It only took a few seconds of rummaging through his chest of drawers before he found what he was looking for. Shooting up would take too long, so he simply opened the small baggy and dumped some of the fine powder onto his pinkie. 

He snorted more than he should have and slumped against the wall. He could hear Mrs Hudson knocking on his door as his head swam quite suddenly. 'Dying again, I suppose', he thought before everything went black. 

\-----

He woke up in bed and looked at the clock. Six fifteen. There was a knock at the front door and he dragged himself to it without thinking, running on autopilot at that point. 

"Sherlock." Mycroft said as he walked in. 

Sherlock slumped into his seat and watched listlessly as Mycroft sat across from him. 'John's seat', he thought. 

"I've been telling you for months. You need to find a roommate. The last one was a disaster, yes, but you must move on." He drawled. 

"I'll put out feelers today." He lied. 

"Oh. Well...that's good. I suppose I'll be on my way then." Mycroft said, standing and fidgeting with his umbrella. 

Sherlock stood as well and went to his bedroom. He heard Mycroft leave and descend the staircase and opened his sock drawer to pull out his implements of soon to be destruction. 

He made himself up a small amount, not wanting to nod off before he actually got to feel something good, and prepared a vein. Within minutes he was up and buzzing around the kitchen. He made tea and started an experiment with a human foot he'd recently got from Molly. 

It occurred to him as he sipped his tea that it was the first time he'd done an experiment since this whole thing began. That and his mind was wonderfully blank. He could think easily, pushing useless things (John) to the side and focusing on the task at hand. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad. 

\-----

Three hours later he was just about done with the one experiment and starting on another. Mrs Hudson walked through the door with a plate of food and set it on the only empty spot on the coffee table. 

"You really should turn the upstairs bedroom into a lab, Sherlock. It's not right to have parts of dead bodies so close to the food. It is nice to see you up and about, though." She said cheerfully. 

Sherlock waived her off and she rolled her eyes at him and went back downstairs. He continued taking notes for the next hour and then collapsed on his bed with his laptop. It was still early and he wanted to get some reading done. 

\-----

That night, after the cocaine wore off, and he was feeling the lull that accompanied that, he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He thought about John. He hadn't let himself all day. It was too painful. He wondered if John had felt this aching in his heart, this emptiness that seemed to pulse, to breath, when he'd thought Sherlock dead. 

John, of course, wasn't actually dead. He was out there somewhere in London going about his evening like he'd never met Sherlock. That was almost worse. It seemed stupid to mourn someone who was still alive, but as Sherlock lay there he couldn't stop the tears that made hot tracks down his face. He popped too many downers and let them take him off to sleep. 

\-----

The next morning he woke up. The next morning. The next morning. Sherlock didn't realise it at the time, but as he got out of bad and made his way to the kitchen he noted the experiment from the night before sitting on the table. Bloody hell. How many days this time before he got sent back? 

\-----

It was the next week that he became suspicious. He'd had a whole week of getting high and doing experiments and waking up to find time was in fact moving forward at a normal pace. He thought that he should really get out of the flat and decided that he would go to the bookstore and get something to take up time. 

He looked down at his socks and his stash before deciding he'd had enough of getting high for the time being. He wanted to pay attention in case he got any clues as to why time was back to its usual ways. He'd been looking for clues all week, but he wasn't sure exactly what he should be looking for. 

He got into the shower before it was hot and let the cool water jerk him awake. It had been four days since he showered and he knew he must be disgusting. His hair took two cleanings to strip the oil and his body felt slick until he scrubbed it. The only thing that wasn't amiss was his face. He refused to let facial hair grow whether he was strung out or not. It itched and made it hard to think. He rinsed off, took up his razor and cleaned it up. 

He felt like wearing his favorite suit, the charcoal one with the emerald green shirt. He slipped on a pair of pants and found it in the closet. The soft fabric felt good against his skin and for once, after he'd buttoned his shirt, he felt like himself. 

He slipped on his greatcoat and descended into a bright day, silently cursing the sun and birds chirping on his way to the bookstore. He turned his collar up and slouched as he headed around the corner. 

The bookstore owner gave him a squeeze on the shoulder and he went to look in the science section. 'RATS: Observations on the history and habitat of the city's most unwanted inhabitants' was in and he happily took a copy from the shelf. One more and he would be good for the day. Weird Life by David Toomey caught his eye so he grabbed it as well. 

He almost yelled when he turned and bumped right into someone. A cane fell to the ground and Sherlock smirked. 'Just because you need it doesn't mean I'll pick it up for you', he thought bitterly. 

"Sorry, bit clumsy is all." A familiar voice said. 

Sherlock found himself staring as one John (Hamish) Watson stooped to pick up his cane. 

"I can fix your limp." He spouted. 

John gave him a frown and clenched his jaw. "Sorry, mate, but no one can seem to pull that off." 

"What you need is adventure. At the end of the day you feel like your life is going nowhere, that nothing ever happens to you. Let me happen to you." Sherlock said quickly, blushing deeply at his almost poetic turn of phrase. 

John chuckled and raised his eyebrows. "Are you coming on to me?" 

"Suppose I was." Sherlock said, nervousness biting into him. 

John smiled his genuine John smile and cocked his head to the side. "You're not very good at this, are you?" 

"Let me rephrase." Sherlock said quickly, "Would you like to get coffee?" 

John looked around and then nodded, seeming to surprise even himself. They walked together to the checkout and John set the two books he was getting down. 

"Is this one with you?" The old Irishman who owned the store asked Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded and the man tossed John's books in a bag and passed them over. "It's on the house. Sherlock never has to pay." 

Sherlock thanked the man and walked out into the street with a dumbfounded John at his heel. 

"Sorry, but what was that about?" John asked as he caught up to Sherlock's stride. 

"I solved a case for him a year ago. Attempted murder of his wife. He's been giving me free books ever since. Sentiment I suppose."

"So you're a cop?" John asked. 

"No, but I do work with the police. I'm a consultant of sorts. Dashing about London solving cases." Sherlock said with a grin. 

"So...adventure." John replied. 

"Quite." was all Sherlock said. 

\-----

Years later, forty three to be exact, the two men were sitting in their cabin in the woods one night reading by the fire. John was reading one of the books he'd published about their cases together, sentimental, Sherlock insisted, and Sherlock was reading a book about black holes (he'd got pretty keen on the solar system and such a while back, much to John's delight.). 

John slipped his hand into his husband's and leaned against him, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder and closing his eyes. It had been a long day, the grandchildren visiting and all, and John was quite tired. 

"Sherlock." He said softly. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked. 

"Tell me the story of how we first met." John replied. 

Now, Sherlock got used to John's sentimentality over the years and had grown quite a few sentimental idiosyncrasies himself. He smiled fondly and set down his book. 

"I told Mike Sterling...no, Stamford that I needed a flatmate. He met you in the park and you said you needed a flatmate as well." Sherlock began. 

John drew back and looked him in the eyes. 

"Oh, love, your mind must be wandering. We met in the bookstore." John said gently. 

Sherlock looked shocked for a moment before schooling his expression and starting again. 

"Yes. The bookstore. I was rather rude about your limp and fumbled my words. For some reason you agreed to coffee and-" Sherlock began. 

"You promised me adventure." John added. 

"Yes, and I supplied it a week later. You went on a case with me and fell in love with my cheekbones and brilliance and the way I turned my coat collar up to look mysterious." Sherlock finished. 

John sighed. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes." 

"I love you too, John Watson. In every lifetime I've had." Sherlock admitted.


End file.
